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<'-^y^y^   tljUi  ^ti^l  ^-^     ^^ 


THE 

BEING  THAT  OF 

Albert  2)urcr. 

®ran»lateTJ  from  tl)e  ffierman  of 
^        SLeopolTr  Sc|)efer, 

BY 

MRS.  J.  R.  STODART. 

BSPSINTSD    FROM   THS   LONDON   SDITIOH. 


BOSTON  AND   CAMBRIDGE: 
JAMES  MUNROE  &   COMPANY. 

MDCCCXLIX. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  j'ear  1848,  by 

JAMES  MUNROE  &  CO., 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts. 


Add  to  Lib. 
GIFT 


>.    FLAGO    A.WD    W.    H.    WARDWELL, 

STSSSOTTPSRS   AND    PEIJJTKRS. 


TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE. 


The  Novels  of  Schefer  are  not  much 
known  in  this  country,  nor  have  any 
of  them,  so  far  as  I  know,  been  trans- 
lated into  English.  The  following", 
after  the  manner  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's 
"  Tales  of  my  Landlord,"  purports  to 
be  an  old  manuscript  intrusted  by  Al- 
bert Durer  on  his  deathbed  to  his  friend 
Pirkheimer,  with  instructions  that  it 
should  be  given  to  the  world  when  all 
those  to  whom  its  contents  might 
cause  pain,  were  no  more.  The  idea 
may  have  been  suggested  to  the  au- 
thor by  the  words  of  DUrer  himself; 
for  he  concludes  an  account  of  the 


IV 


death  of  his  father  by  saying — "  As  I 
have  described  at  length  in  another 
book."  Of  this  book,  only  one  torn 
leaf  was  found,  marked  page  19.  It  is 
written  in  very  old  German,  and  con- 
tains a  short  account  of  the  death  of 
his  father  and  mother ;  of  a  remark- 
able event  which  happened  in  the 
year  1503,  and  which  he  designates 
as  "  the  greatest  miracle  I  ever  saw  in 
all  my  life,"  when  suddenly  the  figure 
of  the  cross  was  seen  on  the  persons 
of  many  individuals  at  the  same  time, 
especially  on  children ;  that  on  ac- 
count of  its  singularity  he  had  made  a 
drawing  of  one  which  appeared  on  his 
own  maid-servant  Susanna,  and  which 
so  terrified  her  that  she  wept  and  la- 
mented, thinking  it  would  be  the  cause 
of  her  death ;  of  having  seen  a  comet 


in  the  heavens ;  and  also  how  he  had 
been  enabled  to  pay  all  his  debts  con- 
tracted in  Venice,  besides  purchasing 
many  articles  of  furniture,  new  dresses, 
and  various  domestic  utensils,  with  a 
large  sum  of  money  he  had  received 
for  one  of  his  works ; — all  quite  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  events  narrated  in 
the  following  pages. 

This  fragment,  together  with  a  jour- 
nal of  his  travels  in  the  Netherlands 
with  his  wife  and  Susanna,  letters  to 
Pirkheimer  and  other  friends,  and  va- 
rious interesting  details,  is  given  in  a 
small  volume  published  in  1828  by 
Dr.  Friedrich  Campe,  a  citizen  of 
Niirnberg,  entitled  "Relics  of  Albert 
DUrer."  By  it  I  find  that  the  leading 
facts  in  the  life  of  the  great  painter  are 
closely   adhered   to   by   the    novelist. 


VI 


The  history  of  the  Kttle  Agnes,  how- 
ever, must  be  imaginary;  unless  in- 
deed Schefer  is  indeed  correct  in  say- 
ing, that  from  her  early  death,  and 
having  been  scarcely  known  among 
men,  the  memory  of  her  had  passed 
away.  I  should  also  mention  that 
Campe  gives  some  poetic  effusions 
from  the  pen  of  DiJrer; — but  truth 
obliges  me  to  say,  that  though  a  mas- 
ter in  the  art  of  painting,  he  seems  to 
have  been  but  a  journeyman  in  the 
sister  art  of  poetry. 

Li  the  journal,  he  tells  of  the  man- 
ner in  which  he  and  his  wife  and  Su- 
sanna were  entertained  at  Antwerp  by 
the  painters  and  their  wives;  of  the 
silver  service  and  the  extravagantly 
fine  dinner,  and  how  they  were  con- 
ducted home  late  at  night  by  all  the 


vu 


company  carrying  torches ;  also  at  Bru- 
ges how  he  was  entertained  with  Uke 
magnificence,  an  account  of  which  he 
concludes  by  saying  that  more  than 
sixty  persons  accompanied  him  home 
with  many  torches.  He  mentions 
having  been  present  at  a  banquet  given 
by  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  to  the  King 
of  Denmark  (his  brother-in-law),  and 
also  at  one  given  by  the  King  to  the 
Emperor  and  Margaret  (Governess  of 
the  Netherlands)  in  return.  Li  refer- 
ence to  the  latter,  his  words  are — "  He 
invited  me,  and  I  ate  with  them  there." 
Honours  were  heaped  on  him  wherev- 
er he  went,  also  costly  presents  of  wine 
and  other  articles  of  luxury.  He  tells 
of  the  storm  he  encountered  on  the 
coast,  after  having  left  his  wife  at  Ant- 
werp, and  of  the  numerous  pictures 


Vlll 


he  gave  away ,  to  the  Bishop  of  Bam- 
berg, who  invited  him  to  his  house 
and  paid  for  him  at  the  inn ;  to  the 
King  of  Denmark,  and  many  others. 
It  seems,  indeed,  as  the  novehst  says, 
to  have  been  his  dehght  to  give  plea- 
sure to  every  one.  But  his  journey  to 
the  Netherlands  was  nearly  fruitless 
in  all  but  honours.  Margaret,  es- 
pecially, considered  him  richly  re- 
warded by  fair  words  for  many  works 
he  had  executed  for  her,  and  others  he 
had  presented  to  her  besides. 

In  this  httle  volume  Campe  pub- 
lishes a  remarkable  letter  of  Pirkhei- 
mer,  printed  from  his  own  handwriting 
and  addressed  to  Tscherte,  the  Em- 
peror's architect  at  Vienna,  in  which 
he  very  plainly  accuses  Agnes  of  hav- 
ing been  the  cause  of  her  husband's 


IX 


death.  He  says — "  She  gnawed  into 
his  heart;"  that  "she  gave  him  no 
peace  night  or  day;"  and  that  in  con- 
sequence "  he  wasted  away  to  a  skele- 
ton ;"  that  she  urged  him  to  work,  for 
no  other  reason  than  that  he  might 
make  money  to  leave  to  her ;  and  adds 
that  he  (Pirkheimer)  had  often  re- 
proved her  for  her  conduct,  and  prophe- 
sied what  would  be  the  end  of  it :  but 
these  friendly  warnings  gained  him 
nothing  but  ill  will.  All  this  Durer 
seems  to  have  borne  with  the  utmost 
meekness,  quite  in  conformity  with 
the  character  drawn  of  him  by  Schefer. 
He  was  patient  under  a  hard  lot — a 
picture  of  composure  throughout  all 
his  domestic  trials.  In  his  published 
writings,  as  given  by  Campe,  there  is 
not  a  single  word  of  complaint  to  be 


found;  but  his  letters  to  Pirkheimer 
from  Venice  breathe  a  spirit  of  sad- 
ness, especially  in  anticipation  of  his 
return  home.  In  the  account  of  his 
mother's  death,  he  says  that  she  had 
suffered  many  severe  sicknesses,  great 
poverty,  mockery,  contempt,  scornful 
words,  fear,  and  great  reverses ;  but  he 
never  says  from  whom  she  had  to  en- 
dure this  mockery  and  contempt ;  only 
there  is  no  mention  of  Agnes  having 
assisted  in  rendering  the  last  duties  to 
her  husband's  mother ;  and  Diirer  him- 
self, after  telling  that  his  Father  had 
confided  her  to  his  care,  says — "  Two 
years  after  my  father's  death,  I  took 
my  mother  home  to  my  own  house, 
for  she  had  nothing  ^noreJ^  Thus  Schefer 
seems  to  be  justified  in  his  conclusion 
that  Agnes  was  the  cause  of  all  this. 


XI 


That  he  did  much  to  please  her  is  evi- 
dent throughout :  among  other  things, 
while  in  the  Netherlands  he  notes 
down  in  his  journal  different  articles 
he  had  bought  for  her,  such  as  fine 
ivory  combs,  a  cage  for  a  small  green 
parrot  that  had  been  presented  to  her, 
and  what  he  calls  "a  thin  Flemish 
stufffor  the  head." 

From  Campe's  estimate  of  him  as 
a  man  and  an  artist,  we  find  that  na- 
ture and  an  inquiring  mind  were  his 
teachers;  untiring  patience  and  bound- 
less industry  the  genii  that  accom- 
panied him  through  fife.  He  opened 
up  his  own  path  on  all  sides :  we  have 
to  thank  him  for  the  invention  of  etch- 
ing ;  he  wrote  the  first  work  on  forti- 
fication ;  one  on  the  proportions  of 
the  human  body,  one  on  perspective, 


xu 


and  many  others  besides ;  he  was  the 
first  who  made  rules  for  the  art  of  writ- 
ing, and  gave  a  better  form  to  the  let- 
ters :  he  was  about  to  begin  a  work 
on  landscape  painting,  when  death 
called  him  away.  He  was  a  designer, 
painter,  architect,  sculptor,  and  en- 
graver on  wood  as  well  as  metal.  He 
made  woodcuts  cf  the  life  of  Christ  in 
thirty-nine  pieces.  One  of  his  best 
specimens  in  this  style  is  St.  Eustacius 
kneeling  before  a  stag  which  has  a 
crucifix  between  its  horns.  At  Prague, 
besides  his  picture  of  Adam  and  Eve, 
there  is  one  of  Christ  bearing  the 
Cross.  His  own  picture,  which  he 
sent  to  Raphael,  came  into  possession 
of  Giulio  Romano,  who  placed  it 
among  the  curiosities  in  the  palace  of 
Mantua.     At  Venice  there  is  an  Ecce 


XIU 


Homo  :  and  in  the  gallery  at  Florence, 
besides  his  own  portrait,  are  the  repre- 
sentations of  St.  PhiUp  and  St.  James, 
and  an  Adam  and  Eve.  The  people 
of  Niirnberg  still  carefully  preserve  in 
the  public  hall  his  portraits  of  Charle- 
magne and  some  of  the  Emperors  of 
the  house  of  Austria ;  also  the  twelve 
Apostles,  whose  drapery  is  remark- 
able ;  and  in  the  church  of  St.  Sebal- 
dus,  in  which  he  was  married,  a  very 
old  building  in  the  pure  Gothic  style, 
one  part  of  which,  St.  Peter's  Chapel, 
situated  between  the  towers,  dates  as 
far  back  as  the  tenth  century,  there  is 
a  picture  by  him  of  the  entombment 
of  Christ,  said  to  be  excellent.  Fuseli 
says  that  the  colouring  of  Diirer  went 
beyond  his  age,  and  that  in  easel  pic- 
tures it  as  far  excelled  the  oil  colour 


XIV 


of  Raphael  in  juice  and  breadth  and 
handUng,  as  Raphael  excelled  him  in 
every  other  quality. 

He  knew  not  what  it  was  to  envy 
other  artists ;  he  rejoiced  over  every- 
thing that  was  good,  and  praised  what- 
ever there  was  to  praise.  If  an  ill  ex- 
ecuted work  was  brought  to  him,  he 
said  good-humouredly — "  Well,  the 
master  has  done  his  best."  He  was 
well  versed  in  the  Scriptures,  and  they 
furnished  materials  for  his  best  repre- 
sentations. He  never  lent  his  talent 
to  indecency ;  his  art  was  as  pure  as 
his  morals.  His  facility  was  incon- 
ceivable. Bellini  wished  to  have  from 
him  the  pencil  with  which  he  drew 
hair  so  minutely ;  Diirer  held  out  to 
him  a  handful  of  every  kind,  telling 
him  to  take  any  one  he  liked,  for  that 


XV 


he  could  do  it  with  them  all.  Once 
in  a  party  of  artists,  when  every  one 
was  giving  a  proof  of  his  skill,  Diirer 
took  a  piece  of  chalk  and  drew  quite 
off-hand  a  circle  on  the  table,  telling 
them  that  they  might  bring  compasses 
and  measure  it ;  which  being  done,  it 
was  found  to  the  astonishment  of  all 
present  that  he  had  hit  it  to  a  hair. 

Of  his  outward  appearance,  Campe 
says  that  he  was  well  made,  his  chest 
manly  and  broad,  his  hands  slight,  his 
brow  serene,  his  nose  slightly  aquiline, 
his  hair  dark  brown,  falhng  in  natural 
curls  over  his  shoulders,  his  expression 
kindly  and  open,  and  that  there  was 
something  so  pleasant  in  his  talk,  that 
he  was  listened  to  with  attention  and 
delight. 

He  seems  to  have  been  warmly  at- 


XVI 


tached  to  the  principles  of  the  Refcr- 
mation.  When  he  was  in  the  Nether- 
lands in  1521,  news  came  that  Luther 
had  been  seized  and  carried  off  to  the 
Castle  of  Wartburg.  Thinking  that 
he  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  his 
enemies,  Diirer  was  overwhelmed  with 
grief,  and  gave  vent  to  his  feelings  in 
a  very  pathetic  lamentation  and  prayer, 
which  are  given  in  the  journal. 

The  house  in  which  Diirer  hved  and 
died  is  of  very  considerable  dimen- 
sions, and  stands  at  the  corner  of  the 
street  called  at  that  time  Zisselgasse, 
but  now  Albrecht  Diirer's  Strasse,  and 
is  nearly  opposite  to  one  of  the  gates 
leading  into  the  Imperial  Castle.  In 
his  day  it  seems  to  have  stood  at  the 
extremity  of  the  city,  but  is  now  quite 
surrounded  by  buildings  which  have 


XVI I 


arisen  on  all  sides.  Campe  says  that 
in  1826  he,  as  a  member  of  the  magis- 
tracy, bought  for  the  city  from  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  house  a  balcony  where 
Diirer  used  to  work,  for  which  he  paid 
1675  florins,  and  that  it  is  carefully 
preserved  as  a  relic.  He  also  gives  a 
letter  from  Louis,  the  present  King  of 
Bavaria,  so  well  known  as  a  liberal 
encourager  of  the  arts,  showing  a  high 
appreciation  of  Diirer  as  an  artist,  and 
proposing  that  a  statue  should  be 
erected  in  honour  of  him  in  his  native 
city.  To  this  Campe  says  that  such 
a  letter  from  such  a  King  is  itself  the 
best  monument  to  the  memory  of  the 
Artist. 

Diirer's  ancestors  were  Hungarians, 
inhabitants  of  a  small  village  called 
Eytas,  whence  his  grandfather  Anton 


XVUl 


Diirer  came  to  Niirnberg,  and  there 
learned  the  trade  of  a  goldsmith,  which 
was  held  in  much  higher  repute  in 
those  days  than  it  is  now,  and  argued 
a  more  than  ordinary  advancement  in 
art.  His  father  and  himself  continued 
the  same  trade,  which  he  pursued  even 
after  having  become  a  renowned  paint- 
er and  engraver.  His  wife,  who  sur- 
vived him  eleven  years,  carried  on  the 
business  after  his  death;  and  when 
she  died,  it  was  taken  up  by  his  bro- 
ther Andreas,  the  only  one  of  all  his 
numerous  family  who  survived  him. 
His  wife's  parents  died  in  still  greater 
poverty  than  his  own,  and  also  in  the 
midst  of  severe  trials  and  reverses. 

Durer's  father  in  noting  down  the 
births  of  his  children,  never  mentions 
the  day  or  the  month,  but  just  the  year 


XIX 


and  the  Saint's  day  on  which  the  birth 
took  place,  which  is  indeed  a  common 
practice  among  CathoUcs. 

His  son  Albert  was  born  on  the  day 
of  St.  Prudentius,  1471  (the  6th  of 
April),  on  which  Good  Friday  fell  in 
that  year ;  and  he  died  also  on  the  6th 
of  April  1528,  and  in  Passion  Week; 
according  to  Schefer  on  Maunday 
Thursday.  Diirer  died  of  consump- 
tion in  the  57th  year  of  his  age,  Campe 
says  weary  of  life,  his  body  emaciated, 
and  his  fine  aspect  gone.  As  far  back 
as  1521,  he  says  in  his  journal — "In 
the  third  week  after  Easter  I  was 
attacked  by  a  burning  fever,  together 
with  great  weakness,  loathing,  and 
headache ;  and,  as  formerly  when  in 
Zealand,  I  was  again  overcome  by  a 
strange  sickness  of  lohich  1  never  heard 


XX 


before  from  any  one,  and  this  sickness  I 
have  yeV  He  was  then  in  the  Nether- 
lands, and  every  page  in  the  journal 
after  this  date  contains  entries  of 
money  paid  for  medical  advice.  This 
was  seven  years  before  his  death  ;  but 
the  strange  sickness  here  mentioned 
was  most  probably  the  beginning  of 
the  fatal  disease  which  brought  him 
gradually  down  to  a  premature  grave. 
A  joint  sepulchre  was  built  for  his  fa- 
ther-in-law and  himself  in  the  church- 
yard of  St.  John  ;  and  an  epitaph,  writ- 
ten by  his  friend  and  patron  Pirkhei- 
mer,  was  inscribed  on  his  gravestone. 
But  Sandrart,  who  came  to  Niirnberg 
in  1674,  and  continued  there  till  his 
death  in  1688,  the  founder  of  the 
Academy  of  painting,  and  who  may 
with  truth  be  called  the  Winkelniann 


XXI 


of  his  aj^e,  was  not  satisfied  with  this 
inscription,  and  added  two  others,  in 
one  of  which  he  calls  Diirer  "The 
prince  of  artists."  He  also  caused  the 
gravestone  to  be  renewed,  and  placed 
it  as  it  now  stands. 

The  Pirkheimers  were  a  family  of 
considerable  wealth  and  importance 
in  Niirnberg,  and  Diirer's  friend  was  in 
every  way  the  means  of  his  advance- 
ment in  early  life.  But  Diirer  himself 
was  for  many  years  in  easy  circum- 
stances, although  he  always  lived  with 
the  utmost  frugality.  His  disposition 
was  naturally  cheerful,  and  his  con- 
versation so  agreeable  that  his  society 
was  much  sought  after,  and  he  was 
for  many  years  chief  magistrate  of  his 
native   city.      Pirkheimer   deeply  la- 


XXll 


mented  his  friend,  whom  he  only  sur- 
vived three  years. 

One  word  as  to  the  translation. 
The  volume  of  Schefer's  Novels  con- 
taining the  following  story,  fell  into  my 
hands  about  two  years  ago,  and  seem- 
ed to  'me  to  possess  very  considerable 
interest ;  but  I  was  long  deterred  from 
attempting  a  translation  of  it,  by  the 
great  difficulty  of  the  task.  I  have  not 
—I  do  not  pretend  to  have  executed 
it  well :  of  this  at  least  I  am  certain, 
that  I  have  not  satisfied  myself  I  fear 
I  may  have  erred  in  being  too  literal ; 
but  I  could  not  avoid  this  without  frit- 
tering away  what  appeared  to  me  to 
be  the  charm  and  peculiarity  of  the 
style.  Knowing  all  its  defects,  I  have 
only  to  plead  in  arrest  of  judgment, 


XXlll 


that  it  is  my  first  attempt  in  the  way 
of  translation,  that  the  author's  style  is 
extremely  elliptical,  and  his  meaning 
in  many  parts  obscure.  But  I  lost 
myself  in  my  interest  in  the  subject ; 
and  have  only  now  to  hope  that  my 
readers  will  go  and  do  likewise. 


Edinburgh,  Feb.  1848. 


WILIBALD  PIRKHEIMER  TO  THE  NI]VETEEx\TH 
CENTURY,  GREETIiVG: 

Maunday  Thursday  had  passed  away  into 
Night :  my  House  was  abready  closed.  The 
Lamp  shone  from  the  arched  Roof  of  my 
Chamber  upon  the  Floor  below :  I  stood 
with  my  hot  Forehead  leaning  on  the  cool 
Panes  of  the  stained  Window,  and  through 
the  Points  of  colourless  Glass  gazed  at  the 
dark  Clouds  as  they  sailed  over  the  full 
Moon.  My  Soul  was  sorrowful,  for  my 
Friend,  the  dear  Master  Albert  Durer,  lay  on 
his  Deathbed.  I  reflected  on  the  course  of 
our  past  Lives :  how  dear,  how  kind,  how 
precious,  he  had  been  to  me,  and  I  to  him — 
and  there  he  lay  now!  The  World  looked 
the  same  as  ever ;  the  Walls  shook  not,  nor 
changed,  for  as  fixedly  as  I  gazed  on  them ; 
and  yet  there  was  a  Man  about  to  pass  away, 


—  26  — 

such  as  Niirnberg  would  never  see  again. 
Alas !  and  I  too  remained  as  motionless.  I 
had  not  visited  my  Friend  for  a  Year,  nor 
he  me ;  and  when  I  saw  him  at  a  distance 
on  the  street,  tottering  along,  I  shunned  him, 
and  had  alrealy  given  him  up  as  one  num- 
bered with  the  Dead.  But  my  Anger  was 
Love  towards  him!  Anger  on  account  of 
the  Weakness  I  thought  I  discovered  in  him, 
and  which  made  him  wretched ;  but  this  he 
would  never  confess — he  only  smiled.  But 
when  I  saw  hira  becoming  each  time  paler ; 
the  Hand  with  which  he  pressed  mine  ever 
more  and  more  wasted ;  then  did  I  bewail 
the  Fate  of  the  noble  Man,  "  the  Prince  of 
Artists,"  as  he  was  called.  He  read  in  my 
Eyes  what  my  heart  was  bursting  to  say  to 
him  again,  for  I  had  ahready  said  it  a  hun- 
dred times.  He  always  evaded  the  subject 
by  some  friendly  remark  ; — indeed,  so  accus- 
tomed was  he  to  this,  that  none  but  a  Friend, 
such  as  myself,  could  tell  how  much  the  habit 


—  27  — 

cost  him.  I  could  not  look  upon  him  thus 
going  down  to  the  Grave  in  the  Prime  of 
Life  and  the  Maturity  of  his  Powers,  like  a 
Tree  when  bringing  forth  goodly  Fruit — so 
I  thought  it  better  not  to  see  him  again  at  all. 
He  read  the  Heart  of  his  Friend,  and  shun- 
ned me  also.  All  this  he  endured,  until  at 
length  his  Heart  had  become  thoroughly  like 
unto  refined  Gold ;  he  had  been  changed  in- 
to a  mild  smiling  Image  of  Patience,  and,  by 
virtue  of  the  patient  Sufferings  of  a  Lifetime, 
had  this  advantage  over  others,  that  he  await- 
ed Death  w4th  a  calm  and  smiling  Counte- 
nance. For  this  I  often  considered  him  wise 
and  happy;  and  yet  at  the  same  time  my 
Heart  was  rebellious.  Now,  however,  dur- 
ing those  latter  Days,  since  he  had  been  laid 
on  his  Deathbed,  I  had  no  longer  any  Peace. 
Often  had  I  gone  to  his  Door,  and  lifted  the 
Knocker — then  let  it  gently  down  again,  and 
hastened  away,  as  quickly  as  an  old  Man 
might.     But  if  at  any  time  I  resolved  not  to 


28 


go  to  him,  then  my  Heart  was  ready  to  burst, 
and  I  could  find  rest  nowhere.  As  for  him, 
he  was  satisfied  with  everything;  nothing 
could  now  befal  him  which  was  not  welcome 
and  good;  and  I  almost  persuaded  myself 
that  he  was  equally  satisfied  with  whatever 
1  did,  or  left  undone. 

This  Evening,  however,  some  Foreigners 
devoted  to  the  Arts  had  arrived  to  see  the 
Father  and  Master  of  the  German  Artists. 
They  proposed  to  serenade  him — then  went 
I  weeping  away,  and  thought  of  the  Friend 
who  this  very  Night  perhaps  might  depart 
thither — where  the  Moon  was  floating  among 
the  golden  Clouds;  that  Moon  which  still 
shone  young  and  full  over  our  Heads,  grow- 
I  ing  grey  with  years,  and  which  almost  ap- 
j  peared  to  me  at  that  moment  like  a  Spirit. 
I  was  deeply  moved  when  I  called  to  mind 
the  tender  feeling  Words  in  which  some  un- 
known human  Heart  had  found  an  Utter- 
ance: 


—  29  — 

Here  dies  a  mortal— What  hath  Nature  lost  ? 
Her  hundred  thousand  Children  comfort  her; 
The  Heaven  with  her  eternal  Stars  remains 
Serene  as  was  her  wont ;  and  to  the  Moon 
Comes  no  Calamity :  she  still  shines  on. 
But  he,  the  Man  who  died,  he  was  my  Friend! 
I,  wretched,  such  a  Friend  find  not  again. 
So  to  the  smiling  Moon  and  Sky  serene 
I  weep  forlorn — Alas  !  loithout  a  Friend  ! 

Suddenly  I  heard  the  sound  of  quick  Foot- 
steps on  the  Pavement  below.  I  saw  a  fe- 
male Figure.  She  stood  still,  looked  up  to 
the  Moon,  wrung  her  Hands,  and  pressed 
them  to  the  Temples  of  her  reclining  Head. 
Thus  she  stood  for  a  long  Time :  then  sud- 
denly recollecting  herself,  she  approached  the 
Door  of  my  House,  and  knocked.  The  Door 
was  closed.  She  then  impatiently  pulled  the 
bell,  and  the  Sound  echoed  throughout  the 
solitary  Dwelling.  But  the  Shadow  which 
fell  in  front  of  me  on  the  Panes  of  Glass,  had 
betrayed  to  me  who  it  was.     She  knocked. 


30 


I  remained  motionless.  She  called  out : 
Master  Wilibaldl — Pirkheimer !  Senator! 
Master  Imperial  Counsellor! — I  smiled  scorn- 
fully. The  Voice  was  the  Voice  of  the  beau- 
tiful A^nes,  the  Wife  of  my  dying  Friend 
Albert — therefore  I  hearkened  not.  Then, 
heated  and  impatient  as  she  was,  she  knock- 
ed in  with  the  palm  of  her  Hand  one  of  my 
most  beautiful  Panes  of  painted  Glass,  which 
I  would  not  have  given  for  a  hundred  Flo- 
rins. Are  you  asleep  ?  she  then  called  in  to 
me  with  her  beautiful  Voice ;  are  you  dream- 
ing? Your  Friend,  your  Albert,  is  at  the 
point  of  Death,  and  entreats  you  to  come  to 
him.  Ah!  he  was  a  good  Man  after  all! 
These  words,  he  luas !  pierced  me  to  the 
Heart.  They  spoke  of  the  Living  as  al- 
ready among  the  Dead — and,  infected  by  her 
warmth,  I  struck  out  another  Pane  of  Glass 
with  the  Hand  that  held  my  bonnet,  which 
made  Mistress  Agnes  start  back.  God  will 
judge  you!  muttered  I.     But        -I  come. 


—  31  — 

Quickly,  then !  she  exclaimed,  and  disap- 
peared : 

I  heard  a  Window  shut  over  my  Head — 
my  unfortunate  sick  Sister  Clara^  in  former 
times  a  Nun,  but  who  had  now  returned  to 
dwell  under  my  Roof,  she  too  had  listened 
to  all  this!  Oh  Heavens!  the  poor  dear 
loving  One,  how  would  she  feel,  now  that 
Albert  was  dying ! 

I  left  everything  as  it  was,  scarcely  wait- 
ing to  secure  the  House,  and  hurried  away 
to  the  Corner-House  at  the  Zissel-Gate  to 
my  Friend  Albert  I  could  scarcely  support 
myself  even  by  clinging  to  the  smooth  time- 
worn  Railing  of  the  Stairs;  and  was  still 
standing  before  the  Door  of  his  spacious 
Chamber,  which  lay  towards  the  right  Hand, 
when  suddenly  I  was  overpowered  by  a 
Flood  of  bitter  Tears :  I  restrained  myself, 
dried  my  Eyes  and  Cheeks,  and  then  enter- 
ed gently — gently  approached  the  Bed.  He 
appeared  to  slumber. 


—  32  — 

At  his  Feet,  in  a  Niche  in  the  Wall,  two 
wax-L'ghts  were  burning  before  a  Picture. 
It  was  that  of  the  Master's  little  Daughter  in 
her  Coffin,  watched  over  by  an  Angel  hold- 
ing a  Palm  Branch,  who,  only  half  visible 
from  the  left  side,  bent  over  the  small  sweet 
Face  of  the  Child.  But  the  Face  of  the 
Angel  was  that  of  the  Mother  of  the  Child, 
the  beautiful  Agnes  in  the  bloom  of  Youth, 
with  an  expression  of  genuine  Sorrow  and 
yet  of  saintlike  Hope  faithfully  depicted  on 
it.  On  the  Coffin  were  painted  three  large 
Brazen  Shields,  the  centre  one  of  which  re- 
presented the  Countenance  of  the  Father, 
Master  Albert  himself,  with  his  Eyes  closed. 
The  Shield  at  the  Head  of  the  Child  bore 
the  Face  of  Alberts  Mother  Barbara ;  and 
the  one  at  the  Feet  that  of  her  Husband,  the 
Child's  Grandfather.  Here,  then,  had  the 
loving  Master  thus  sadly  and  beautifully 
conjoined  all  who  were  dearest  to  him  on 
Earth. 


Perhaps  he  might  just  now  have  been 
contemplating  that  Picture. 

I  gazed  on  him  mournfully.  There  rested 
on  the  red  silk  Coverlet  of  the  Bed  that  Hand 
formerly  so  beautiful,  so  soft,  so  slight — but 
how  powerless  now !  There  it  now  rested 
too  surely  for  ever !  His  Brow  was  as  se- 
rene, and  the  expression  of  his  Countenance 
as  pleasing  and  open  as  ever.  His  slightly 
aquiline  Nose  was  still,  as  it  had  ever  been, 
expressive  of  that  calm  Courage  which  seem- 
ed to  have  been  given  him  for  the  purpose  of 
Endurance  alone.  His  ample  Hair  hung  on 
each  side  in  Curls  on  his  Shoulders ;  but  it 
was  no  longer  dark-brown  as  it  had  formerly 
been ;  it  was  now  grey.  The  Beard  alone, 
which  covered  the  Chin,  and  descended  till 
it  touched  the  middle  of  the  Throat,  was  yet 
dark.  His  benign  Eye  was  gently  closed. — 
I  sighed. 

He  is  not  asleep,  said  Susanna,  the  Mas- 
ter's faithful  Attendant,  now  grown  old  in  his 

3 


—  34  — 

service,  and  who  had  noiselessly  approached 
me,  I  knew  not  from  whence ;  he  has  been 
longing  much  to  see  you ! 

Art  thou  come  at  last  ?  said  Albert^  smiling, 
but  without  opening  his  eyes.  He  held  out 
his  Hand  towards  me,  but  not  to  me^  for  I 
gave  him  mine,  and  immediately  he  opened 
his  Eyes  wide. — I  thought  it  was  Agnes! 
sighed  he,  almost  inaudibly ;  and  behold !  it 
is  my  Friend,  my  Wilibaldl  She — she  is 
afraid  to  stay  with  me,  as  if  Death  could  ap- 
proach Men  visibly!  Ah!  he  comes  from 
the  Depths  within — out  of  our  Life!  Be- 
lieve me,  Wilibald^  that  is  the  doing  of  the 
Lord.  He  alone  can  do  it ;  such  is  His  Will. 
So  let  it  be !  No  one  can  kill  Angels — we 
die,  because  we  are  mortal.  Also  no  one 
can  destroy  us,  neither  suddenly  nor  grad- 
ually; he  can  only  shorten  Life,  nought  else, 
and  that  is  doing  little  or  nothing. 

He?  or  She  ?  Whom  dost  thou  mean,  thou 
ever  excellent  One  ?  asked  I  significantly. 


—  35  — 

I  no  longer  mean  any  one,  said  he  in  a 
tone  of  resignation.  But  that  thou  also 
shouldst  no  longer  accuse  any  one — that  do 
I  owe  to  Aer,  and  to  thee,  yea  to  myself. 
Man,  who  stands  in  jieed  of  Grace,  does 
well  to  be  jusL     This  is  in  his  own  Power. 

He  now  gave  me  a  Key  from  the  golden 
Chain  which  hung  around  his  Neck.  In 
doing  this,  it  occurred  to  him  to  take  the 
Chain  off  altogether,  and  lay  it  aside ;  and  as 
it  fell  link  by  link  from  his  failing  Hand,  with 
a  gentle  sound  on  the  little  Table  beside  him, 
I  felt  nearly  frozen,  and  thought,  Thus  do 
worldly  Honours  depart  from  us ! 

Long  mayst  thou  wear  thine  I  resumed 
Albert.  In  Life  no  one  can  be  blamed  for 
acting  reasonably.  Here  is  now  the  Key. 
Take  from  my  Chest,  not  my  Book  of  Travels, 
not  my  Journal,  these  thou  knowest  already 
— but  the  History  of  my  Married  Life.  Read ! 
— preserve  it.  Leave  it  in  Trust  to  some 
widely-spread  honourable  Family.     When 


—  36  — 

none  of  my  own  are  remaining,  when  these 
Leaves  have  become  matter  of  History  alone, 
when  they  are  no  longer  the  "  Goads  and 
Nails  "*  of  the  Preacher,  then  will  its  genu- 
ine Truth  yet  speak  to  the  Heart ;  and  if  it 
make  only  one  Wife  more  patient  when  need 
is,  only  one  Husband  more  careful  to  per- 
form what  he  vowed  to  his  Wife  before  God ; 
then  have  I  not  suffered  in  vain,  as  I  i?i  vain 
suffered.  For  whatever  makes  us  better — is 
good.  And  everything  can  do  this,  if  we  so 
will  it,  if  we  understand  it  aright. 

Good  Master — will  I  not  call  thee,  said  I 
with  emotion,  for  this  epithet  hath  a  Greater 
only  permitted  to  the  Greatest  I  but  Faithful, 
Gentle,  Noble  Master,  Teacher,  Man,  and 
Friend ;  these  will  Posterity  recognize  in  thee, 
as  my  Tears  do  now. 

He  changed  the  subject  playfully,  and  said. 
If  thou  wilt  trust  me  with  a  little  Billet  to  thy 

*  Ecclesiastes  xii.  11. 


—  37  — 

alas!  too-early-lost  Crescenzia — then  write! 
this  Night  it  will  be  delivered.  It  is  said  the 
Dead  have  this  power ;  but  they  are  silent 
Messengers  who  indeed  bring  no  answer. 
For  this  then  thou  must  pardon  me!  He 
smiled,  and  pressed  the  Key  between  my 
Hands  with  both  of  his,  whilst  we  gazed  in- 
to each  other's  Eyes. 

His  words  had  awakened  in  me  an  inex- 
pressible longing  after  my  excellent  Wife. 
Ah !  she  was  good — hence  the  danger ;  since 
what  is  good — is  divine.  Ah !  she  was  good 
and — gone.  I  lived !  Albert  was  dying — his 
Agnes  left — through  whom  his  Life  had  been 
shortened^  but  who  could  not  rob  him  of  it, 
as  he  himself  solemnly  affirmed. 

I  found  the  Manuscript  he  had  mentioned ; 
I  held  its  few  Leaves  in  my  Hand — how 
heavy  they  felt !  as  I  lifted  them  sighing,  and 
with  a  glance  at  my  Friend.  Wearied  by 
the  exertion  of  speaking,  he  had  fallen  into  a 
Slumber,  his  Hands  folded  on  the  Coverlet. 


—  38  — 

Exhausted  also  by  nighl-watching,  Susanna^ 
with  her  Head  buried  in  her  blue  apron,  sat 
in  her  Master's  velvet  Arm- Chair,  and  slept. 
And  thus,  surrounded  only  by  Sleepers  and 
by  Pictures  on  the  Wall,  I  sat  down  alone  at 
the  large  Table  with  the  green  Cover,  trim- 
med the  Lamp,  drew  it  nearer,  unfolded  and 
read.  ^What  I  then  thought,  I  afterwards 
noted  down,  adding  small  asterisks,  and  also 
the  initials  of  my  name,  a  W,  and  a  P.,  to 
each  Note.  So  much  for  thee,  dear  Reader, 
in  the  Days  which  to  me  are  no  Days ;  only 
absolute  Time;  only  mysterious  Love  and 
Blessedness,  and  Light  and  Glory — but  with- 
out thy  Sun  ! — Yet  read ! 


MARRIED  LIFE  OF  MASTER  A.  D, 


FOR   DEVOUT   DISCIPLES    OF    THE   ARTS,   PRUDENT 

MAIDENS,  AS  WELL  AS  FOR  THE  PROFIT  AND 

INSTRUCTION   OF   ALL   CHRISTENDOM, 

GIVEN  TO  THE  LIGHT. 

"  To  be  right  in  a  wrong  way — is  wrong." 

Should  the  above  Initials  of  the  Artist,  in 
after  Years,  be  still  known  among  Men,  then 
will  they  also  know  the  Name  of  the  Artist, 
and  some  may  even  be  led  to  inquire  as  to 
the  actual  Life  of  the  Man.  For  the  Artist 
has  a  double  Existence  ;  one  in  Imagination 
and  in  his  Works,  the  other  as  a  Man  in  his 
Home ;  and  each  pervades,  completes,  and  ^ 
supports  the  other,  and  neither  is  long,  with- 
out the  other,  good  and  available.     Should 


40  THE    MARRIED    LIFE 

this  Life,  then,  so  deeply  rooted  in  the  Earth, 
become  matter  of  curiosity — and  when  his 
Works  have  been  contemplated,  the  Life  of 
the  Master  should  be  inquired  after — no  Ac- 
count founded  on  any  solid  Basis  could  be 
given ;  for  those  who  knew  about  his  earthly 
Life  were  of  Earth  like  himself.  But  they 
might  perhaps  hear  of  the  Sufferings  of  the 
good  Master ;  might  perhaps  accuse  him  of 
having  been  no  fauhless  Husband,  and  her 
no  praiseworthy  Wife.  God  forbid  I — and 
may  these  Words  interpose  like  a  Sword,  or 
as  the  Angel  with  the  flaming  Sword  before 
this  lost — Paradise!  The  Fantasies  of  the 
Master  have  passed  away  wath  his  Soul ;  his 
Works  bear  evidence  of  his  Feelings,  of  his 
Conceptions  of  Nature,  of  his  Views  and 
Capacities;  nay,  all  these  they  in  a  great 
measure  themselves  are ;  much  also  of  his 
Life  is  mingled  and  inseparably  intertwined 
with  these,  or  runs  through  them  like  a 
Woof;  of  this,  therefore,  let  nothing  be  said : 


OF    ALBERT    DURER.  41 

Sentence  has  already  been  passed.  But  the 
following  was  written  by  his  better  self,  when 
having  fancied  himself  in  Suffering,  he  thus 
from  the  Fancy  actually  suffered,  and  in  con- 
quering the  Fancy,  conquered  also  the  Suf- 
fering. This  then  was  his  Consolation :  to 
discover  the  Goodness,  the  Integrity  of  his 
Wife ;  to  unveil  her  deeply-concealed  Love, 
and  with  delight  to  acknowledge  it !  and  this 
gave  him  not  only  Courage,  but  Joyfulness ; 
so  that  his  own  Love  had  again  free  scope, 
and  what  he  had  thought  and  felt  in  the  se- 
cret Depths  of  his  ever-imaginative  Mind, 
afterwards  passed  into  his  Fantasies,  uncon- 
sciously moved  him  to  create,  and  to  his  own 
surprise  became  embodied  in  his  Works. 
Thus  does  the  wiser  also  become  the  better  - 
Artist.  His  Wisdom,  however,  is  calm  Se- 
renity and  powerful  Love.  He  who  beholds 
all  things  clear  as  in  a  Glass,  and  in  all  the 
Productions  of  his  creative  Power  sees  only 
a  reflection  of  himself  and  of  his  Love — he 


42  THE    MARRIED    LIFE    OF    DURER. 

it  is  who  is  the  good,  the  happy,  yea  the  high- 
est Artist.     We  are  but  Journeymen.* 

Everything  well  considered,  however,  it  is 
Treason  to  the  World  strictly  to  conceal  the 
Workings  of  the  inner  Man.  The  mighty 
Events  in  the  outward  World,  Deeds  of  Vio- 
lence, Murders  and  Outrages,  these  serve  on- 
ly to  startle  and  to  confound — Men  scarcely 
comprehend  them!  and  fortunate  for  them 
that  it  is  so!  They  are  so  rarely  for  the 
profit  of  Individuals ; — should  they  then  be 
perpetuated  by  means  of  the  Arts  through 
long  Ages  of  the  World  for  many  Genera- 
tions! Far  from  it! — better  far  perpetuate 
the  Human,  the  Ordinary,  yea  the  Everyday ! 
for  these  after  all  are  not  so  evident  as  most 
people  fancy.  In  this  way  is  brought  to  light 
what  is  in  Man,  and  the  Minds  of  INIen  are 
,  thereby  advanced  and  elevated !  and  if  all 
'  that  comes  to  Light  be  not  beautiful,  still  it 
is  true,  and  leads  to  Peace  and  Happiness. 

*  Students  of  the  Arts,  Pupils.— JF.  P. 


HOW  MASTER  ALBERT  TOOK  UNTO  HIMSELF 
A  WIFE. 

The  Countryman  he  wooes  his  Land ; 
The  Noble  Rank  and  high  Command ; 
The  Workman  Home  and  Skill  of  Hand; 
The  Merchant  he  strives  Wealth  to  gain ; 
The  Painter's  bound  in  Beauty's  Chain ; 
But  all  a  Wife  seek  to  obtain. 

At  Whitsunday  of  the  Year  1490,  Albert 
set  out  on  his  Travels  for  the  study  of  the 
Fine  Arts ;  at  Whitsunday  of  the  Year  1494 
he  heard  again  the  Stroke  of  the  Number^ 
Clock. 

The  Joy  of  Meeting  is  well  worth  the  Pain 
of  Separation.  The  Father  had  bought  his 
Son  a  House,  had  given  him  his  own  Su- 
sanna^ a  poor  adopted  Child,  as  Housekeep- 
er; had  provided  the  Rooms  thriftily  with 
household  Furniture ;  Contentment  and  Hap- 


44  HOW    MASTER    ALBERT    TOOK 

piness,  Industry  and  Art — these  he  brought 
with  hin^ ;  and  now  was  he  in  very  deed  to 
become  a  Painter  in  the  City  of  the  Twelve 
Hills.  His  Father  took  him,  dressed  in  his 
best,  first  of  all  to  the  House  of  his  Godfather 
Anton  Koburger,  who  took  great  Delight  in 
him ;  afterwards  to  all  the  Members  of  that 
Body,  of  which  his  Father  was  also  one. 
From  the  House  of  Master  Michael  Wohlge- 
muth^ the  Painter,  Engraver,  and  Woodcut- 
ter, with  whom  Albert  for  three  Years,  begin- 
ning in  the  Year  1486,  had  diligently  and 
painfully  studied,  because  he  had  had  much 
to  endure  from  his  fellow- work  men,  they 
crossed  the  Street  to  the  House  of  the  lively 
Harp-player  and  Singer,  Hanns  Frei,  who 
was  also  an  Optician.  But  among  the  most 
bewitching  Works  in  the  heavenly  Work- 
shop of  the  heathen  God  SephdstuSj  could  no 
such  living  Miracle  have  stood,  as  was  now 
to  be  seen  in  the  House  of  Hanns  Frei,  in 
the  Person  of  his  Daughter  Ag-nes,  a  young 


UNTO    HIMSELF    A    WIFE. 


45 


Nurnherg  Maiden  of  fifteen,  who  was  play- 
ing on  the  Harp. 

Is  it  possible  that  Nurnherg  contains  such 
a  beautiful  Maiden  ?  said  he  to  himself.  I 
thought  I  had  left  them  all  in  Italy ^  beyond 
Mestre,  Have  I  got  back  my  Senses  and 
my  Heart  ?  as  if  suddenly  borne  after  me  in- 
to my  home  by  a  Dove !  Have  I  my  Eyes 
again  ?  The  Voice  which  I  heard  before  the 
Door  was  opened,  was  it  not  one  of  those 
Angel  voices  ?  Only  ^is  modest  Blush  on 
the  lily  Cheeks  was  not  to  be  seen  there! 
nor  the  timid  Eye  turned  towards  the  ground, 
covered  by  a  large  Eyelid  like  a  Bell-flower! 
and  as  if  bordered  by  long  Eyelashes !  What 
a  Picture  ! — what  a  Delight — a  Wife  !  a 
Heaven  upon  Earth — in  Number g  I  Oh 
thou  dear  native  Town ! 

These  thoughts  and  Feelings  passed  as 
quickly  through  the  Mind  of  the  young  Mas- 
ter, as  a  golden  Cloud  flies  through  the 
Heavens;  but  they  left  a  shadow  behind: 


46       HOW  MASTER  ALBERT  TOOK 

for  Love  is  no  Cloud,  but  the  Polar  Star, 
amidst  the  splendour  and  radiance  of  the 
Northern-light* 

He  shall  paint  thee,  dear  Agnes,  said  Al- 
berths  Father. — She  raised  her  Eyes,  and 
looked  gloomily  at  me.f 

Now,  Daughter,  said  Master  Frei^  do  not 
look  quite  so  Angry  about  the  matter — there 
will  be  time  enough  for  that  in  Master  Al- 
bert's Dwelling. 

For  Painting  ?  o\  for  looking  Angry  ? 
said  Agnes  to  him,  quickly  changing  colour 
from  the  most  glowing  Red  to  snow-white 
Paleness.  She  looked  meanwhile  somewhat 
smilingly  at  the  young  Albert^  and  at  the 
same  time  gently  shook  her  head,  as  if  warn- 
ing him  not  to  believe  what  her  Father  had 
said.  For  that  was  quite  another  matter, 
and  must  take  place  and  unfold  itself  in  a 
very   different    manner.      The   Father   was 

*  This  star  is  also  often  called  the  little  Bear.— IV.  P. 
1  This  "  me  "  betrays  the  Autobiography. —  W.  P. 


UNTO    HIMSELF    A    WIFE.  47 

blowing  the  Rose  open  violently  ;  but  genial 
Warmth  and  Dew  alone  could  unfold  it  by- 
degrees,  and  cause  it  to  open  its  Heart  and 
give  forth  its  Perfume,  so  that  it  might  not 
fade  away  before  next  morning,  leaving  no 
Perfume  behind. 

All  was  now  made  evident  to  Albert^  when 
his  Father  said  to  the  Father  of  Ag-nes,  I 
have  done  my  part,  I  have  given  him  a  tole- 
rable Establishment;  the  young  Wife  will 
do  the  rest  according  to  her  own  wishes  and 
desires.  For  all  married  Pairs  have  their  own 
fancies,  as  to  how  the  Table  must  stand,  and 
where  the  Bed,  so  that  the  Cradle  may  not 
knock  against  it :  we  and  our  better  Halves 
have  also  enjoyed  this  Right  in  our  Day. 

Thou  shalt  have  two  hundred  Florins  for 
thy  portion,  my  Daughter,  said  Father  Frei, 
smiling.  And  now  join  hands !  We  have 
betrothed  you  already  in  our  own  Minds; 
let  it  be  done  now  also  in  reality,  in  order 
that  we  may  see  you  ratify  what  we  from 


48  HOW    MASTER    ALBERT    TOOK 

old  Friendship  and  before  God  have  pur- 
posed. 

Albert  could  not  think  of  saying  No  to 
such  a  beautiful  Creature  as  Agnes,  nor  yet 
could  Agnes  to  him.  She  should  have  given 
hira  her  Hand,  but  stood  still  like  an  im- 
moveable Work  of  Sephdstus,  grave  Bashful- 
ness  depicted  in  her  nobly-formed  Counte- 
nance. Her  Father  made  a  Sign  to  her ; — 
without  moving,  she  allowed  the  Youth  of 
twenty-three  to  take  her  Hand,  but  she  press- 
ed his  so  suddenly  and  so  vehemently,  that 
he  started,  and  gazed  into  the  eyes  of  the  in- 
explicable Child.  She  sighed,  her  youthful 
Bosom  stood  upheaved  from  suppressed 
breathing.  Tears  streamed  from  her  dark 
Eyelids ;  she  disengaged  herself  and  hasten- 
ed away. 

It  is  just  the  Nature  of  all  such,  said  Mas- 
ter Freij  comforting  him.  He  pressed  him 
to  his  Bosom,  and  gave  him  now  his  Bless- 
ing alone. — She  has  had  hers  already  by  her 


UNTO    HIMSELF    A    WIFE.  49 

Obedience  to  my  Will,  said  he.  Master 
Wohlgemuth  has  presented  you  both  with 
Rings.  Therefore  be  of  good  cheer  /*  and 
go  into  the  Garden,  and  persuade  the  little 
Maiden  there  to  take  one  of  them — or  lay 
it  down  beside  her.  It  is  not  the  Nature  of 
such  to  leave  it  lying.  From  you  certainly 
not! 

Albert  did  as  he  was  bidden.  Agnes  was 
reclining  in  an  Arbour,  her  Head  resting  on 
the  Bosom  of  her  Sister,  who  looked  at  him, 
and  smiled  thoughtfully,  but  at  the  same 
time  as  one  who  was  much  offended.  A2:nes 
did  not  rise,  but  she  raised  her  Eyes  to  her 
Bridegroom,  and  they  rested  full  on  him,  and 
she  seemed  desirous  of  keeping  his  Look 
firmly  fixed  on  herself.  For  beside  the  Sisters 
sat  another  beautiful  Maiden  called  Clara, 
who  w^as  the  Sister  of  Wilibald  Pirkheimer, 
as  Albert  learned  forthwith.     When,  how- 

*  Wohlgemuth  means  "  Be  of  good  cheer." — Translator's 

Note. 

4 


50  HOW    MASTER    ALBERT    TOOK 

ever,  Agnes  saw  how  he  gazed  at  the  Maid- 
en and  as  an  Artist  dwelt  with  Delight  on  her 
fair  Countenance  and  delicate  Form,  she 
drew  in  her  Ring- Finger.  But  when  Clara 
took  hold  of  her  little  Hand,  Agnes  seemed 
to  have  no  longer  Power  to  withhold  it,  and 
Clara  placed  the  Ring  gravely  on  her  Friend's 
Hand.  Then  they  all  three  arose  and  walk- 
ed away,  Agnes  in  the  middle ;  meanwhile 
Albert  looked  on  the  Ground,  then  glanced 
after  them,  then  looked  down  again,  and  re- 
mained so  standing  with  closed  Eyes,  and 
full  of  contending  Emotions. 

His  Father  was  the  first  to  rouse  the 
Dreamer.  Well,  my  Son,  have  I  not  chosen 
well  for  thee  ?  asked  he  with  a  satisfied  air. 

Well !  beautifully  I — and  yet  not  well ! 
replied  he. 

Happy,  said  his  Father,  are  the  Parents 
who  can  rely  on  their  Sons  and  Daughters, 
and  bring  them  up  well,  so  that  a  Father's 
Will  should  not  only  be  salutary  for  them. 


UNTO    HIMSELF    A    WIFE.  51 

but  appear  to  be  so  to  them.  Does  not  the 
Father  of  us  all  choose  Time  and  Place  for 
us  ?  Does  He  not  provide  all  that  is  to  meet 
our  Eye  in  our  own  Days?  There  is  no 
other  Leaf,  nor  Cloud,  nor  Wife,  nor  Child, 
nor  Husband,  to  be  seen,  than  those  he  has 
chosen  for  us.  And  will  He  change  them 
forsooth  on  our  account  ?  He  creates  them 
according  to  His  own  will,  and  yet  He  de- 
votes them  to  our  use.  What  then  can  have 
been  His  Intention  ?  He  has  loved  us  only 
— designs  that  we  should  love  Him,  and  that 
what  He  has  created  should  be  worthy  of 
our  Love,  just  because  it  is  His  Gift! — My 
Son,  be  sure  to  let  that  be  your  Thought  in 
Everything:  think  thus  of  thy  Father;  and 
also  of  thy  young  Wife ;  and  if  it  be  not  so, 
still  it  might  and  should  be  so.  My  Father 
pointed  out  a  Maiden  to  me ;  I  reverenced 
his  Will,  and  she  became  my  Wife.  As  I 
became  reconciled  to  her  name — for  she  was 
called  Barbara — then  being  reconciled,  began 


52 


HOW  MASTER  ALBERT  TOOK 


to  love  it,  because  I  loved  her,  because  my 
Father  loved  her — so  wilt  thou  also  love  the 
beautiful,  singular,  modest,  prudish  Agnes. 
She  will  be  Faithful  to  thee,  for  her  Mother 
is  an  excellent  Woman.  He  who  chose  for 
me,  however,  was  only  my  Master,  Hierony- 
mus  Hallefj  my  Father  in  the  Arts:  thine  is 
thy  own  Father ! 

She  is  only  fifteen  years  old !  said  Albert 
mildly. 

My  Son,  said  the  Father,  that  is  the  right 
Age  at  which  a  Man  attaches  to  himself  not 
only  the  first  awakening  of  the  Heart,  of  the 
Eyes,  and  of  all  the  Senses,  but  even  the 
Dreams  of  his  Wife,  and  her  pure  and  single 
Love.  And  should  she  afterwards  think  and 
feel  otherwise — behold !  she  is  already  bound 
by  rosy  Fetters !  Little  Arms  are  twined 
around  her  Neck,  her  House  demands  her 
Care  during  the  Day,  Night  calls  for  Repose. 
Thus  she  grows  up  with  her  Children,  and 
when  she  sees  in  her  Boys  and  Girls  the 


UNTO    HIMSELF    A    WIFE.  53 

Love  they  bear  to  their  Father,  she  cannot 
fail  to  learn  it  from  them!  and  when  they 
cling  around  his  Knees,  and  she  twines  her 
Arms  around  his  Neck,  and  both  look  down 
on  the  beloved  little  Ones  whom  the  one 
owes  to  the  other  alone — ^what  must  she  feel  ? 
And  mark  well, — nothing  is  strange  to  her; 
no  Allurement  has  Novelty  to  offer,  no  No- 
velty anything  better  or  more  blessed  than 
what  she  may  enjoy  in  Peace  and  Tranquil- 
lity, giving  Thanks  to  God! 

I  am  only  three  and  twenty  years  old,  said 
Albert  again. 

My  Son,  said  he,  that  is  the  right  age,  at 
which  a  Wife  may  hope  to  have  her  Hus- 
band long  spared  to  her.  The  Husband  is 
a  Father ;  Years  do  not  fail  him  in  the  be- 
ginning, as  they  do  alas !  at  last ;  when  such 
a  want  leads  only  to  Disappointment  and 
Misery.  I  married  a  Wife  of  fifteen,  when 
I  was  already  older  than  thou  art.  Thou 
knowest  I  have  dedicated  eighteen  Children 


54       HOW  MASTER  ALBERT  TOOK 

to  the  Lord  at  the  baptismal  Font ;  that  is  a 
Harvest  for  me  in  Heaven !  I  have  brought 
up  eighteen  human  Beings  I  know  not  how ; 
that  is  a  Harvest  for  me  on  Earth!  We 
were  young  with  the  Mother — Suffering  was 
light,  Happiness  was  Felicity  I  The  Mother 
took  as  much  pleasure  in  decking  herself  as 
her  Girls  ;  the  Father  was  brisk  and  nimble, 
playing  about  with  his  little  Boys,  willing  to 
cover  the  Ball  with  network,  or  to  fly  the 
Kite.  We  were  only  like  an  elder  Sister 
and  Brother ;  that  thou  thyself  knowest. 
And  if  thy  Love  to  me  was  so  much  greater 
than  that  of  other  Children  to  their  Parents, 
consider  that  it  arose  hence,  that  when  thou 
wert  older,  I  continued  to  be  thy  Friend,  yea 
thy  Confident ;  consider  that  it  arose  hence, 
that  thou  indeed  didst  become  older,  but  I — 
not  old  I  so  it  ought  to  be— then  is  the  mar- 
ried State  not  a  sorrowful  State  ;*  then  the 

*  The  Grermans  have  a  Proverb : — "Ehestand  ist  Wehes- 


UNTO    HIMSELF    A    WIFE.  55 

Father's  Head  does  not  ache  from  the  noise 
of  his  Children ;  he  does  not  strike  them  at 
random  and  without  feeling,  nor  call  desiring 
them  to  sit  still  and  be  quiet — Education,  nor 
Fear — Obedience !  then  Boys  do  not  weep 
or  sneak  around  a  grey-haired  old  Man,  and 
wander  over  the  Earth  when  deprived  of  him 
without  Counsel  or  Support.  Then  he  rocks 
the  Cradle  of  his  Grandchildren  I — Oh  the 
Delight  of  Man !  and  though  he  should  de- 
part hence,  the  Trees  still  bloom  around,  and 
blessed  is  his  House!  Therefore — Early 
woo,  never  rue. 

These  fatherly  Words  overcame  the  loving 
Son ;  his  Father's  Will  became  his  Will,  and 
he  hoped  that  it  would  also  become  his  Hap- 
piness. For  his  Agnes  was  beautiful — only 
he  knew  not  how  he  had  acquired  the  Trea- 
sure, since  Angels  are  no  longer  to  be  seen 
on  earth.     It  had  come  to  him  so  suddenly, 

land-'''    "  The  married  state  is  a  sorrowful  state." — Trans- 
lator's  Note. 


56  HOW    MASTER    ALBERT.    ETC. 

but  SO  much  the  more  wished  for,  and  his 
Heart,  softened  by  the  contemplation  of 
Beauty  in  Italy^  wound  itself  around  the 
divine  Form  of  Ag-nes,  who  had  been  sent  to 
him  as  it  were  from  Heaven,  by  the  Hand  of 
his  Father.  But  the  beautiful  Maiden,  who 
appeared  to  be  favourable  towards  him,  yet 
felt  injured  in  womanly  Dignity,  hurt  in  the 
Purity  of  her  Love,  because  she  had  been 
constrained  to  yield  him  her  Hand,  before 
having  given  him  an  Answer  or  a  Smile,  and 
was  angry  with  him  that  he  had  so  received 
such  a  Gift ;  and  angry  with  herself  that  her 
Heart  nevertheless  allured  her  towards  the 
amiable  Youth.  Love  desires  Freedom,  and 
even  the  appearance  of  Constraint  causes 
Unhappiness,  debases — the  nobler  the  Heart 
is.* 

*  Here  a  good  Feeling  lay  as  a  good  Foundation  to  a 
tottering  Building. —  W.  P. 


THE  HONEYMOON. 

Agnes's  Period  of  Betrothment  lasted  only 
seven  Weeks,  till  the  Day  of  the  Seven 
Brothers.*     The  Decision  of  the  Parents  that 

*■  The  10th  of  July.  These  seven  brothers  and  their 
mother,  St.  Felicitas,  suffered  martyrdom  in  the  second  cen- 
tury, in  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Antoninus  Pius.  She  was 
a  noble  and  pious  Christian  widow,  resident  at  Rome,  and 
employed  heiself  wholly  in  prayer,  fasting,  and  works  of 
charity.  By  her  example  and  that  of  her  whole  family, 
many  were  induced  to  renounce  the  worship  of  false  gods, 
which  so  exasperated  the  heathen  priests,  that  they  com- 
plained to  the  Emperor,  who  being  somewhat  superstitious 
himself,  sent  an  order  to  Publius  the  Prefect  to  take  care  to 
satisfy  the  priests  and  appease  the  gods  in  this  matter. 
The  mother  and  her  sons  were  therefore  brought  before 
him,  but  refusing  to  sacrifice  to  the  gods,  the  sons  were  all 
condemned  to  different  deaths,  and  their  mother  was  be- 
headed four  months  after  having  witnessed  and  rejoiced  in 
the  martyrdom  of  her  children.  St.  Felicitas  is  commemo- 
rated in  the  Roman  Martyrology  on  the  23d  of  November, 


58  THE    HONEYMOON. 

she  was  to  be  Albert^s,  unsettled  the  whole 
calm  Course  of  her  Life ;  and  now  there 
could  never  more  be  any  bright  Beginning, 
Foundation,  or  Progress  in  Love.  Right  is 
no  Law  for  Love ;  it  even  offends  the  most 
delicate  Mind.  Therefore  he  never  spoke  of 
his  relation  to  her;  and  when  she,  in  the 
Levity  of  Youth,  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
all,  then  she  opened  her  whole  Soul  to  him, 
and  he  read  deeply  concealed  Affection,  yea 
even  struggling  Love,  in  her  Eyes,  which 
only  the  more  suddenly  and  treacherously 
broke  forth,  and  drew  her  nearer  and  nearer 
to  him,  even  into  his  Arms,  till  Lip  clung  to 
Lip ; — then  she  tore  herself  away  from  him, 
and  was  for  whole  Days  only  the  more  grave 
and  silent. 

On  the  Wedding-Day  he  appeared  before 
her,  for  the  first  time   for   many   Days,  in 

and  her  sons  on  the  10th  of  July.    See  Butler's  "Lives  of 
the  Saints." — Translator. 


THE    HONEYMOON.  59 

Bridegroom's  Attire,  and  found  her  ready- 
dressed  in  bridal  pomp.  Thus  everything 
seemed  to  be  right,  now  and  for  ever.  From 
that  time  all  went  on  in  the  natural  order  of 
things. 

It  rained. 

Even  that  did  not  put  her  out  of  humour, 
for  Rain  on  the  bridal  Day  promises  to  the 
young  pair — Riches. 

And  now  the  beautiful  Agnes  stood  before 
the  Altar  in  the  Church  of  St.  Sebaldus. 
One  of  her  Cheeks  glowed  purple  red ;  the 
other,  the  right,  which  was  turned  towards 
him,  was  so  much  the  paler.  Thus  to  the 
audience  she  appeared  as  if  ashamed  and 
bashful.  Albert,  however,  during  the  singing 
of  the  Hymn,  looked  at  the  carved  work  of 
the  Altar,  and  the  old  stained  Glass  in  the 
Windows,  and  greeted  here  and  there  with 
a  slight  nod  some  old  Friend  of  his  youth, 
who  saw  him  again  there  that  Day  for  the 
first   time,  and  joyfully  greeted   him   from 


60  THE    HONEYMOON. 

among  the  Crowd.  Ag-nes  reproved  him  for 
this  by  a  slight  touch  of  the  Arm,  as  showing 
a  want  of  pious  Concentration  of  Thought 
on  the  important  Step — the  Spring's  Equi- 
nox or  the  Solstice  of  our  Life. 

But  how  remarkable  were  the  Words 
which  the  Godly  Man  chose  as  a  Text  for 
his  ceremonial  Address !  and  yet  how  deep 
and  beautiful,  by  means  of  the  Expounding 
and  Application  of  them  to  us — and  our 
small  Hopes!  for  they  were  these  : — 

"Be  not  forgetful  to  entertain  Strangers, 
for  thereby  some  have  entertained  Angels  un- 
awares.*'* 

The  Bride  gazed  at  her  future  Husband, 
whom  she  ought  to  entertain  like  an  Angel ; 
he  smiled  upon  her  whom  he  was  to  enter- 
tain as  an  Angel,  and  the  looks  of  both  sunk 
to  the  ground  before  each  other. 

They   received   many   and   distinguished 

*  Some  !  I  have  done  so. —  W.  P. 


THE    HONEYMOON.  61 

Guests  from  the  City  at  the  House  of  the 
Bride,  and  both  accepted  of  the  Congratula- 
tions with  visible  emotion.  The  Bride  sat 
at  table  next  to  the  Bridegroom  with  a  stiff 
demeanour.  She  would  not  allow  the  Myr- 
tle Wreath  to  be  taken  off  her  little  stubborn 
Head,  and  an  old  Lady  excused  her  by  say- 
ing, Everything  has  its  time  ! — Thereupon 
Agnes  tore  it  herself  from  among  her  Locks. 

God  preserve  us!  muttered  the  horrified 
old  Lady. 

At  the  end  of  the  last  course  we  heard  a 
Cry,  which  proceeded  from  under  the  Table. 
It  turned  out  that  it  had  been  uttered  by  my 
best  Friend  :  his  Face  was  bleeding ;  he 
went  composedly  towards  the  Door.  Agnes 
half  laughed,  half  cried. 

I  arose  and  followed  him.  He  was  sitting 
on  the  stone  Seat  under  the  Arch  of  the 
Doorway. 

It  is  an  old  Custom — which  I  certainly 
cannot  commend — that  some  one  should  dis- 


62  THE    HONEYMOON. 

tribute  to  every  one  of  the  Guests  a  little  bit 
of  the  Bride's  Garter,  said  he ;  but,  Albert^ 
you  may  rely  upon  this — you  will  suffer 
much,  but  you  will  have  a  faithful  Wife. 

The  Bridegroom  excused  her,  not  without 
smiling. 

But  the  other  proceeded : — For  whatever 
Woman,  and  more  especially  a  young  one, 
thinks  so  peculiarly,  and  thrusts  from  her  so 
vigorously  with  her  little  bold  Foot  an  honest 
old  Custom,  thinking  nothing  of  Gibes  and 
Uproar,  she  is  in  my  opinion  worthy  of  par- 
ticular Honour.  I  am  myself  amazed,  now 
I  think  of  it.  If  a  Custom  prevails  around 
us  as  clearly  and  evidently  as  Sunshine,  then 
it  is  still  a  valid  and  living  one.  But  things 
are  changed  now!  The  World  judges  of 
the  propriety  of  these,  and  sometimes  takes 
advantage  of  them  perversely — and  fettered 
by  the  restraint  of  Custom,  which  no  Wo- 
man can  openly  throw  off  without  exciting 
Laughter,  many  make   grievous   Sacrifices 


THE  HONEYMOON.  63 

thereto ! — The  bold  Bride  is  in  the  right — I 
prophesy  you  Happiness  and  Unhappiness. 
Now  Good-night! 

He  then  went  away,  his  Face  concealed  in 
his  Handkerchief,  and  muttering  through  his 
teeth.  The  Servant  hastily  seized  the  un- 
lighted  Lantern,  and  carried  it  before  him  in 
a  very  odd  manner.* 

Albert  went  in  perplexed;  some  of  the 
Guests  crowded  past  him ;  the  Company  had 
all  broken  up,  and  departed  with  brief  and 
quiet  Greetings,  or  with  no  Greeting  at  all. 

Thus  the  spacious  decked-out  apartment 
was  now  empty.  The  Bride  still  sat  in  her 
place,  and  nibbled  crumbs  of  pastry.  The 
Bridegroom  placed  himself  beside  her.  She 
was  silent,  and  he  spoke  not. 

I  am  heartily  sorry !  exclaimed  Hanns 
Freiy  the  Father-in-law,  who  was  standing 

*  The  Servant  was  mine !  and  now  I  must  freely  confess, 
it  was  my  Nose  which  bled  1 —  W,  P. 


64  THE    HONEYMOON. 

by  himself  in  the  apartment.  I  am  sure  I 
cannot  drink  all  that !  The  delightful  Meat 
and  Pastry  look  at  me  in  vain,  and  cannot 
gain  over  my  Heart  to  any  feeling  of  com- 
passion. But  I  will  not  be  deprived  of  the 
Grandfather's  Dance  !  Halloo  !  strike  up, 
Pipers!  strike  up,  Fiddlers!  One  Man  is 
still  a  INIan.  When  I  am  tired,  then  you 
shall  have  your  Holiday. 

The  Music  resounded.  The  Crowd  look- 
ed in  at  the  lighted  Windows.  Father  Frei 
gravely  led  up  his  Wife  to  the  Dance ;  she 
obeyed  with  difficulty,  and  the  somewhat 
aged  Pair  danced  to  the  old  Rhyme  and  the 
old  Tune ; 

"When  the  Grandfather  the  Grandmother  led  up 

with  glee, 
Then  the  Grandfather  once  more  a  Bridegroom 

was  he ! 

A  Bridegroom !  a  Bridegroom !  repeated 
the  Crowd  at  the  outside  of  the  Windows,  at 
the  same  time  clapping  their  Hands.     The 


THE    HONEYMOON.  65 

Grandfather  in  spe  laughed  and  wept;  the 
Mother  became  giddy,  sat  down — and  the 
Marriage  was  over. 

Father  Albert  visited  his  Son  for  the  first 
time  on  the  sixth  Sunday  after  the  Marriage. 
He  found  him  alone,  sat  down,  looked  at 
him  smilingly,  and  said : 

Now,  my  dear  Son,  how  goes  it  ?  Well  ? 
Thou  hast  now  become  quite  another  Man ; 
thou  art  now  a  Husband.  Oh  the  Honey- 
moon !  the  Honeymoon !  on  it  depends  for 
ever  the  Happiness  of  Wedlock.  If  a  Jacob 
serve  seven  Years  for  a  Rachel^  and  again 
seven  Years,  still  he  only  serves,  still  he  only 
comes  to  know  the  Bride,  but  not  the  Wife. 
The  Bride  shows  herself  only  as  she  would 
like  to  be  seen,  and  so  does  the  Bridegroom : 
there  is  nothing  then  but  soft  talking,  smil- 
ing, complaisance,  feeling  and  giving  Delight 
— a  dreamlike  Condition.  Happy  are  they 
who  thus  die !  yet  it  shall  not  so  be,  for  they 
must  live.     But  the  Husband  and  Wife  have 

5 


66  THE    HONEYMOON. 

dwelt  and  been  educated  in  different  Houses  ; 
they  have  acquired  different  habits  and  even 
many  peculiarities,  which  have  taken  such 
deep  root  within  them  that  they  cannot  be 
eradicated,  and  which  they  will  carry  about 
with  them  through  Life.  And  now  the  Wife 
must  learn  the  peculiarities  of  her  Husband, 
and  bear  with  him ;  and  he  in  like  manner 
with  those  of  his  Wife.  And  how  is  this  ef- 
fected? Nature  places  them  in  the  School 
of  Love,  and  in  the  midst  of  glowing  Feel- 
ings and  blissful  Fascination  she  gently  dis- 
plays to  each  the  habits  and  merits  and  man- 
ner of  Existence  of  the  other,  accustoms  him 
smilingly  and  imperceptibly  to  the  Occupa- 
tions, and  even  to  taste  and  praise  the  fa- 
vourite Dishes  of  the  other,  and  to  consider 
that  which  is  foreign  to  his  habits,  and  even 
repulsive  to  him,  not  only  endurable  but 
pleasant,  for  the  sake  of  the  Beloved.  Each 
comes  to  the  knowledge  of  all  this  during  the 
blissful  Dream  of  Love,  takes  it  kindly,  and 


THE    HONEYMOON.  67 

blends  himself  therewith  in  that  rosy  time 
when  all  is  forgiven — all,  even  if  he  were  the 
Child  of  a  Murderer.  And  this  happy  Fas- 
cination, this  bewitching  Captivity,  lasts  long 
enough  to  stamp  the  Nature  of  the  one  upon 
the  other,  half  unconsciously,  but  to  entire 
Satisfaction.  Thus  then  they  live  placidly 
together  and  with  a  perfect  Understanding, 
and  love  each  other  for  their  Faults  as  well 
as  for  their  Virtues.  Is  it  not  so,  my  son  ? 
for  Marriage  is  a  beautiful  Union,  in  which 
the  Husband  and  Wife,  having  been  joined 
for  ever  by  Heaven,  turn  to  the  noblest  Ends 
of  Humanity  whatever  there  may  be  that  is 
peculiar  in  the  Heart  and  Mind  of  each,  all 
finely  blended  together  by  Love. 

He  then  looked  around  him  in  the  House, 
and  went  into  the  different  Apartments,  found 
and  greeted  his  Daughter-in-law,  and  with 
these  fair  and  wise  Words  he  had,  according 
to  his  own  opinion,  defined  and  settled  the 
whole  Condition  of  the  young  Pair. 


THE    HONEYMOON. 


But  it  was  not  so !  Now  was  the  Artistes 
Married  Life  begun  ;  and  the  question  arises, 
whether  even  the  most  loving  Maiden  can 
thoroughly  understand  him.  She  has  a  Life- 
time in  whicli  to  study  him,  as  he  has  also 
to  study  himself  and  Life.  All  other  Men 
are  conceivable  and  penetrable  in  their  Bear- 
ing and  in  their  Mind ;  the  Artist  is  a  Flower 
which  blooms  from  one  Development  into 
another  as  long  as  he  lives.  And  if  he  shut 
up  his  blooming  Heart,  then  he  is  dead. 
And  his  Works  are  the  stamina  of  the  Flower 
evolved  into  Seed,  which  the  Wind  sows 
over  the  Earth,  and  bloweth — where  it  list- 
eth.  Therefore  to  be  the  Wife  of  such  an 
one,  Patience  is  needed,  and  nothing  can 
nurse  the  Plant  but  the  heavenly  Patience  of 
a  faithful  fostering  Hand. 
r  The  beautiful  Agnes  had  entered  as  it 
j  were  into  a  new  Sphere — a  magic  Sphere 
for  her.  There  was  scarcely  anything  she 
understood,  or  as  to  which  she  could  take  an 


THE    HONEYMOON.  69 

interest  in  her  Husband,  otherwise  than  as  a 
gentle,  careful  Wife.  And  yet  she  wished  to 
do  so;  for  in  her  concealed  Love  for  her 
Husband,  nothing  was  indifferent  to  her 
which  moved  his  Soul  or  filled  his  Heart. 
And  many  things,  so  much  that  was  enig- 
matical to  her,  appeared  to  move  his  Soul 
and  to  fill  his  Heart !  And  she  alone  thought 
to  fill  that  Heart!  while  he  appeared  to  know 
and  silently  to  worship  a  still  deeper  and 
more  holy  Power  than  her  and  her  Love,  yea 
the  Godly,  the  Immortal,  the  Mysterious. 
Then  again  everything  peculiar  in  his  inward 
bent  and  manner  of  thinking  appeared  so 
clearly,  and  yet  also  so  doubtfully  and  im- 
penetrably to  her  Mind,  to  have  its  Founda- 
tion in  the  World  around,  and  to  be  closely 
connected  therewith,  that  it  was  often  well 
with  her  and  often  seething  hot.  But  as  a 
Wife,  all  she  cared  about  was  his  Love — of 
that  alone  she  wished  to  be  certain. 

She  concluded,  therefore,  the  Honeymoon 


70 


THE    HONEYMOON. 


in  this  wise,  that  one  Night  she  fell  sick. 
The  Master  was  greatly  alarmed.  She  long- 
ed for  some  Groundsel  Tea.  But  nothing 
was  to  be  found — no  Frying-pan,  no  Chips, 
no  Coals;  everything  seemed  to  have  van- 
ished. Susanna  appeared.  And  now  sat 
the  good  Master,  and  held  the  little  Pot  with 
Water  over  the  flame  of  the  Lamp  to  boil, 
till  it  became  too  hot  for  his  Fingers,  and  then 
Susanna  held  it  by  the  Handle  till  it  was  too 
hot  for  her  again,  and  willingly  the  Master 
took  it  in  his  turn.  Thus  they  both  sat,  talk- 
ing in  an  undertone,  and  looking  at  each 
other  with  anxious  Countenances,  till  it  boil- 
ed. When,  however,  Susanna  was  gone, 
and  he  carried  the  bitter  Beverage  to  his  dear 
beautiful  Agnes^  there  she  lay  laughing  un- 
der the  Coverlet.  She  flung  her  Arms  round 
his  Neck,  and  said,  I  only  wished  to  see 
whether  thou  really  carest  for  me  I  Now 
drink  thine  own  Groundsel,  to  cure  thy 
Fright !     And  he  drank,  whilst  she  blew  up- 


THE    HONEYMOON.  71 

on  his  smarting  Fingers,  kissing  meanwhile 
the  Points  of  them. 

Ah !  the  Sceptic !  that  was  certainly  a 
very  mischievous  Deed ! — unimportant,  it  is 
true,  yea  lovely  to  behold,  like  a  glittering 
Ring  around  a  young  Bough  in  early  Spring. 
But  it  will  become  a  Nest  full  of  Caterpillars, 
and  deprive  the  Tree  of  its  Adornment  just 
at  the  time  when  it  should  bloom  most  luxu- 
riantly. 


THE  YEAR  OF  STRIFE. 

All  good  men  have  known  the  blessing 
of  profound  Sleep.  To  that  silent  holy  King- 
dom, full  of  Thoughts  and  Images  from 
which  they  at  the  first  as  Children  wonder- 
fully endowed  entered  into  Life,  they  return 
every  Night  to  refresh  themselves :  their  Con- 
sciousness, circumscribed  by  Day,  and  which 
without  Sleep  would  at  length  become  small, 
narrow  and  pitiful,  sets  therein  like  the  Sun, 
and  their  Mind  returns  every  Morning  reno- 
vated, strengthened,  and  enlarged,  coming 
forth  joyfully  like  a  Bridegroom  out  of  his 
Chamber.  Even  the  Flowers  close  in  the 
Evening ;  they  sleep  in  the  Moonlight,  midst 
the  Brilliancy  of  the  Stars  and  the  Songs  of 
the  Nightingales,  as  if  these  sweet  Song- 
stresses were  their  Nurses,  and  in  the  Morn- 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE.  73 

ing  their  Heart  is  more  open,  fuller,  more  | 
fragrant.  If  an  Artist,  therefore,  be  deprived 
of  Sleep,  if  he  must  break  off  his  morning 
Dreams,  during  which  he  brings  to  the  light 
of  day  and  transfers  to  his  waking  hours  what 
he  has  beheld  in  the  World  of  Spirits,  as  if  f 
it  were  contraband  within  Earth's  limits,  then  ( 
good-night  to  Fancy!  farewell  to  her  Works, 
sprung  from  the  Mind,  deeply  felt  in  the 
Heart,  and  nourished  with  the  innermost 
Marrow  of  Life !  For  then  are  they  only — 
Handicraftswork,  conceived  in  the  Day,  in 
the  Day  executed,  and  in  the  Evening  for- 
gotten—Piecework, like  to  Nurnberg  Ginger- 
bread. And  to  make  even  that,  the  Dough 
must  ferment  and  ripen  for  three  Years. 

The  Master  was  now  for  the  first  time  de- 
prived of  this  Morning  Sleep.  Now  Agnes 
did  not  well  know  of  what  value  it  was  to 
him;  but  she  could  not  have  grudged  him 
this  enjoyment,  if  she  had  thought  it  was 
as  sweet  to  him  as  it  was  to  her.     She  con- 


74  THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE. 

sidered  it  only  Laziness  in  him,  but  not  in 
herself;  for  her  it  was  Ease.  However, 
,  young  Wives  like  to  sleep  long — and  Albert 
might  think:  Perhaps  there  ripens  another 
Godly  Work  of  our  Heavenly  Father  in  the 
sweet  Slumberer  midst  her  blissful  morning 
Dreams !  So  then  he  arose  early,  and  thus 
was  his  first  Blessing  gone!  were  it  not  that 
he  acquired  another  in  its  stead,  in  thus  gaz- 
ing on  his  beautiful  beloved  Wife — in  the 
innocent  arms  of  Sleep,  the  rosy  Glow  of  a 
holy  World  on  her  Cheek,  as  a  visible  re- 
flection of  the  same  in  the  earthly  Sphere — 
like  a  new  morning  Dawn  on  an  ancient 
Godlike  Statue. 

At  this  e£irly  period,  the  young  Master  was 
called  to  the  house  of  Wilibald  Pirkheimer, 
Agnes  knew  what  was  to  be  the  object  of  his 
visit,  so  his  lace  Collar  was  not  washed,  nor 
yet  plaited,  or  in  putting  it  on,  Agnes  spoilt 
it  again  herself.  Susanna  dared  not  venture 
to  trim  his  black  velvet  Cloak,  or  his  Shoes 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE.  75 

with  their  Roses.  The  Master  was  obliged 
to  do  it  in  secret  for  himself.  For  Wilibald 
had  kindly  threatened  to  come  for  him  him- 
self. He  came  and  carried  him  off,  to  draw 
a  Picture  of  his  Sister  Clara,  This  was 
what  he  had  to  do. 

He  found  the  beautiful  Maiden — surround- 
ed by  lovely  little  Children — paler  than  at 
the  time  when  she  had  placed  the  bridal 
Ring  on  the  Finger  of  his  Agnes  in  the  Gar- 
den, her  Eye  more  veiled,  her  demeanour 
still  softer  and  more  modest,  so  that  he  felt 
quite  strange  in  the  flower-adorned,  sunny 
apartment,  quite  peculiarly  embarrassed  to 
find  himself  alone  with  her.  She  sat  down ; 
he  drew  the  outline  of  her  lovely  Counte- 
nance ;  she  did  not  raise  her  Eyes — he  was 
obliged  to  ask  her  to  do  so.  She  then  look- 
ed at  him,  her  whole  Soul  in  the  Glance; 
then  her  Lips  quivered,  she  became  still  pa- 
ler than  before,  she  breathed  softly,  her  Head 


76 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE. 


suak  involuntarily,  till  her  Chin  rested  on 
her  Bosom  and  formed  a  delicate  double 
Chin. 

Albert  scarcely  ventured  to  look  at  her ; 
he  could  not  help  sighing.  The  Children 
had  clung  around  her,  and  stood  in  like  man- 
ner embarrassed ;  they  remained  motionless, 
and  also  gently  sighed,  one  after  the  other, 
as  if  they  had  therewith  secretly  infected  each 
other. 

There  is  a  Drop  on  thine  Arm,  said  the 
little  Girl ;  pray  look,  Clara,  how  comes  that 
to  be  there  ? 

Clara  arose.  Do  not  disturb  the  current 
of  the  Master's  Thoughts,  said  she  softly, 
smiling, — nor  mine  either,  dear  Children ! 
The  Drop  fell  from  thine  Eyelids ;  thou  hast 
certainly  been  weeping  just  now. 

I?   asked  the  Girl. 

No,  thou !  said  she  to  the  Boy. 

I  ?  asked  the  Boy. 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE.  77 

Well  then,  she  said,  it  must  have  fallen 
from  my  own  Eyes ;  I  have  been  embroider- 
ing so  busily  at  my  Veil  for  some  days. 

Clara  now  showed  him  the  Veil,  at  the 
same  time  holding  in  her  breath.  I  am  go- 
ing to  put  it  on  thus  early^  and  yet  for  all  that 
too  late  !  said  she,  in  a  scarcely  audible  tone 
of  voice,  and  from  a  Soul  which  seemed  to 
have  lost  itself,  or  to  be  dwelling  in  Thought 
in  far  distant  Regions  and  in  twice-blessed 
Times. 

Ah !  thou  art  going  to  be  a  Nun,  sighed 
the  Boy. 

No,  she  is  going  to  be  an  Angel,  said  the 
Girl,  correcting  him.  Oh  dear  Clara,  I  will 
be  an  Angel  too. 

Then  I  will  be  a  Monk,  concluded  the 
loving  Boy. 

Clara^s  glance  scarcely  wandered  so  far  as 
to  meet  my  Eyes ;  and  when  Albert  under- 
stood aright  her  Words,  her  Looks,  her 
hasty  undertaking,  there  lay  in  this  fleeting 


78 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE. 


Moment  the  Satisfaction  and  the  Consolation 
of  her  whole  self-sacrificing  Life. 

On  a  plate  of  Chinese  Porcelain  was  some 
Gingerbread ; — I  know  not  whether  she  had 
heard  from  her  Brother  that  Albert  had  been 
fond  of  it  from  his  childhood ; — Clara  offered 
some  to  the  Children — and,  as  if  in  jest,  she 
held  out  the  Plate  to  him,  looking  meanwhile 
on  the  Ground,  and  whispered  only :  Perhaps 
you  would  like  also  to  taste  some  of  it  ?  an 
Artist,  you  know,  continues  willingly  to  be  a 
Child,  even  though  he  were 

She  paused.  At  the  same  moment  his 
Wife  sent  for  him  in  haste :  Albert  must  of 
necessity  return  Home — the  matter  could  suf- 
fer no  delay. 

Clara  smiled,  thinking  Agnes  might  have 
a  Presentiment — that  she  might  feel  the  gen- 
tle Echo  of  the  Words  in  her  own  Bosom. 

Go  to  her,  then.  Master  Albert^  said  she, 
taking  leave  of  him;  and  if  you  will  not 
think  amiss  of  me  for  it,  take  the  Drawing 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE.  79 

also  with  you !  My  Picture  was  meant  for 
my  Brother  Wilibald;  but  if  he  wishes  to 
keep  me  in  remembrance,  he  has  no  need  of 
my  Shadow.  And  if  he  misses  me,  he  will 
see  myself  standing  before  his  Eyes,  where- 
ever  I  may  be.  And  besides,  why  should  I 
be  hung  up  in  this  room,  and  deceive  Stran- 
gers who  never  knew  me  ?  I  must  say  Fare- 
well to  you  also  I  farewell ! Now  make 

haste,  else  a  second  Messenger  will  come — 
then  she  will  come  herself.     Ah  !   She  !* 

Albert  went  away  from  her  like  one  in  a 
Dream;  but  his  pure  Heart  did  not  even  li&-| 
ten  to  her  guileless,  heart-rending  Words. 

At  Home,  however,  there  was  no  one  who 
wanted  him.  Agnes  raised  her  Head  from 
her  work,  and  smiled,  looked  at  him  with 
confused  glances,  and  only  said  in  her  own 

*  My  poor,  poor  Sister !  this  alone  then  was  the  cause  of 
thy  retirement  from  Life.  Indeed  I  guessed  as  much.  Why 
did  Hans  Frei  bargain  so  hastily  with  old  Albert ! — W.  P. 


80 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE. 


excuse,  I  was  so  anxious!  now  there  is  a 
Stone  taken  from  my  Heart. 

When  Firkheimer^s  Sister  went  to  the 
Convent  of  Santa  Clara,  she  left  behind  her 
Presents  to  £l11  the  Friends  of  her  Youth,  and 
to  Albert's  Agnes  a  valuable  lace  Collar  of 
her  own  Handiwork. 

Agnes  locked  it  up,  without  even  trying  it 
on.     Perhaps  she  did  so  secretly. 

The  importance  of  the  Honeymoon,  which 
had  been  so  much  vaunted  to  him  by  his 
Father,  had  not  held  good ;  because  he  felt 
that  he  himself  in  this  Fascination  had  scarce- 
ly seen  his  Wife  as  she  actually  was ;  in  like 
manner,  she  gdso  had  not  seen  him  as  he 
was,  much  less  had  she  understood  him ;  but 
least  of  all  would  she  be  able  soon  to  get  ac- 
customed to  the  peculiarities  which  he,  as 
every  Man  does,  brought  with  him  into  the 
married  state  :  of  that  he  was  sensible. 
Everything  must  therefore  once  more  be  con- 
templated after  the  ordinary  manner  of  the 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE.  81 

World,  once  more  with  subdued  Feelings 
spoken  of,  considered,  and  settled,  as  the  op- 
portunity might  offer.  It  was  best,  however, 
that  everything  should  come  right  of  itself, 
and  as  it  might  chance ;  in  all  things  indif- 
ferent the  Husband  must  be  willing  to  yield, 
however  new  it  might  be  to  him,  however 
different  from  what  he  himself  thought ;  he 
had  also  to  learn  that  he  must  sacrifice  the 
Half  of  his  Existence,  must  give  it  up  to  the 
"Wife,  in  order  thereby  to  gain  the  Half  of 
another  beloved  Existence,  and  must  scarce- 
ly venture  to  Avarn,  must  only  tell^  even  when 
anything  Evil  was  to  be  shunned,  or  anything 
Good  to  be  done.  A  Husband  must  not  be 
a  Teacher  or  a  domestic  Chaplain.  One 
Word  may  be  sufficiently  intelligible,  and 
when  there  is  good  intention  on  the  Wife's 
part,  she  has  long  Years  in  which  to  disci- 
pline herself  in  silence  thereon — often  also  to 
suffer.  Albert  was  therefore  meekly  silent, 
and  studied  the  holy  condition  of  Marriage 
6 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE. 


1  with  a  devout  mind,  because  the  Lord  had 

/  placed  him  in  Paradise. 

Under  favour  of  his  Silence,  everything  in 
the  House  was  soon  directed  and  regulated 
according  to  Agnes' s  will ;  and  what  in  itself 
appeared  indifferent,  through  the  number  and 
the  association  of  things,  was  soon  no  longer 
so.  Yet  he  let  everything  alone  which  was 
not  really  bad.  For  he  knew  well  that  he 
exercised  a  mental  Ascendancy  which  con- 
strained his  Wife  in  her  Will,  and  against 
which  she  thought  she  could  maintain  an  ar- 
tificial Equilibrium  by  Opposition  alone. 
She  knew  not  the  power  of  Submission,  not 
even  that  of  Submission  to  the  best  of  Hus- 
bands. And  when  she  saw  daily  the  two- 
headed  Eagle  over  the  park-gate,  on  the  Arms 
of  the  Imperial  City,  then  she  thought  that 
in  Marriage  there  should  also  be  two  Heads, 
without  considering  that  no  living  creature 
can  so  exist,  and  that  even  when  painted  or 
hewn  in  stone  it  is  a  Monster,  or  represents 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE. 


83 


one.  It  should  be  said,  however,  in  excuse 
for  her,  that  she  was  the  Child  of  an  old 
Father,  and  had  not  learned  obedience,  even 
when  he  asked  her  to  be  happy,  not  to  men- 
tion anything  else.  She  had  only  laughed 
when  her  Father  once  asked  her  quite  grave- 
ly to  laugh,  so  that  he  might  see  his  Daugh- 
ter lively  for  once — were  it  only  in  appear- 
ance. 

Thus  demure  was  her  Mind,  and  only  di- 
rected towards  a  few  objects  in  Life,  but  to 
them  so  much  the  more  firmly  and  constant- 
ly. And  these  things  were  not  censurable, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  desirable  and  necessary 
for  every  one.  Her  sense  of  Honour  was 
great,  strong,  and  pure ;  but  she  wished  to 
carry  it  about  with  her  through  Life,  not  only 
firmly  maintained  but  undisputed. 

But . 

Albert's  Father  had,  it  is  true,  bought  him 
a  House,  but  he  had  not  paid  for  it.  And 
therefore  the  Walls  oppressed  and  confined 


84  THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE. 

-• 

poor  Agnes,  so  that  it  was  impossible  to 
move  her  to  look  out  at  the  Window  with 
him — out  of  a  borrowed  House. 

As  often  also  as  she  went  to  Church  like 
a  good  Catholic,  she  avoided  the  Streets  in 
which  any  one  dwelt  who  was  in  Alberfs 
Debt,  that  she  might  not  appear  needy  or 
dunning. 

Albert  J  with  his  usual  candour,  had  also 
imparted  to  her  Letters  he  had  received  from 
Venice  dunning  him.  They  were  for  Debts 
contracted  in  Travelling  and  for  Instruction ; 
— and  he  who  would  allow  his  Neighbour, 
with  whose  circumstances  he  is  intimately  ac- 
quainted, to  starve,  will  lend  to  the  Stranger ; 
for  when  any  one  travels  into  far  Countries, 
he  provides  beforehand  the  means  thereto, 
and  is  thought  to  be  only  in  momentary  em- 
barrassment, which  may  even  befal  the  rich- 
est. Albert,  however,  endured  much  Dis- 
tress in  Foreign  Lands,  and  willingly  suffer- 
ed "Want  from  his  unconquerable  Love  for 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE.  85 

the  Arts,  which  carried  him  cheerfully  through 
a  condition  that  might  perhaps  have  killed 
another,  without  such  an  opposing  power. 
When  such  a  Letter  came,  Agnes  was  silent 
for  Days.  He,  however,  had  the  fruits  of 
his  Journey  in  his  Heart  and  in  his  Mind- 
no  one  could  rob  him  of  these ;  and  that  he  j  \ 
was  in  Debt  for  them,  and  yet  possessed 
them,  appeared  to  him  quite  wonderful;  and  I 
he  was  satisfied  when  he  felt  his  Power,  and 
saw  the  means  how,  and  how  soon,  and  with  . 
what  thanks,  he  would  be  able  to  pay !  But  | ; 
if  he  reckoned  up  all  his  prospects  to  Ag^es^  j' 
she  only  cast  down  her  Eyes,  or  looked  at 
him  with  doubting  Looks,  which  made  his 
whole  heart  tumultuous  within  him.  He 
was  as  certain  of  the  thing  as  he  was  of  his 
Life,  and  yet  his  own  Wife  discouraged  him 
by  her  Doubts !  His  Mind  revolted  ;  all  his 
future  Works  rose  up  within  his  Bosom  like 
fiery  Spirits ;  he  fell  himself  raised  by  them 
above  the  Evils  of  this  Life ;  he  glowed,  his 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE. 


/|Lips  quivered,  Tears  flowed  down  his  Cheeks 
— and  Agnes  stole  away  from  him  speechless 
but  not  convinced — and,  as  he  also  plainly 
saw,  not  to  be  convinced;  she  was  quite 
horror-struck,  for  she  had  never  before  so 
seen  her  gentle  Husband,  so  full  of  noble 
Power!  so  full  of  inward  holy  Wrath ! 

And  yet  he  was  soon  again  pacified,  sof- 
tened, yea  dejected;  for  he  was  not  aKvays 
well  able  at  that  time  to  procure  for  his  Ag- 
nes the  immediate  Necessaries  of  Life,  in  the 
manner  she,  as  Mistress  of  a  House,  wished ! 
As  for  her,  she  savv  the  fulfilment  of  her  most 
reasonable  Hopes  only  so  much  the  longer 
delayed — and  he,  by  the  same  means,  her 
Satisfaction  with  herself  and  with  him  ;  and 
thus  his  own  Peace  hovered  over  him  like  a 
scared-away  Lark,  no  longer  visible  among 
the  Clouds — till  single  Notes  of  her  Song 
again  penetrated  down  to  him,  as  if  the  Sun 
were  singing  and  speaking  to  him. 

Labour  was  Life  and  Delight  to  the  Mas- 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE.  87 

ter ;  for  any  one  can  make  mention  of  his 
own  Industry  as  he  would  of  a  Duty,  and  of 
the  want  of  it  as  a  Sin  of  Omission.  But 
the  Artist  is  no  Machine,  no  Millwheel  that 
turns  round  and  round  Day  and  Night ;  his 
Work  is  Mental,  and  his  Works  are  Mind, 
produced  by  Mind.  Thoughts  and  Images 
slumber  within  him  like  Bees  in  a  Hive; 
they  fly  out  and  feed  and  grow  upon  the 
Sweets  of  the  eternal  Spring  without :  them- 
selves satisfied  and  strengthened,  they  bring 
home  Nourishment  with  them,  and  feed  the 
young  Bees  who  as  yet  only  flap  their  Wings, 
and  buzz  around ;  they  cover  the  Brood,  till 
they  impregnate  their  Queen — Fancy ; — and 
every  new  Work  is  a  Swarm,  which  joyfully 
separating  from  the  Mother-stock,  departs  to 
the  place  it  has  traced  out  for  a  Settlement. 
The  Swarm  changes  its  Voice  by  that  of  the 
Queen  who  keeps  them  together ;  and  when 
its  Bees  and  the  Bees  of  the  Mother-stock 
meet  on  the  Flowers,  they  no  longer  recog- 


88 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE. 


nize  each  other.  Or  as  in  Spring,  when  it 
becomes  hot,  and  the  Heavens  are  inflamed, 
and  the  Thunder  Storm  in  the  Spring  Night, 
with  its  red  Flashes  and  great  Rain-drops, 
causes  a  thousand  Buds  to  spring,  brings 
forth  Blossoms,  opens  up  Crocuses,  Violets, 
and  Hyacinths — and  they,  when  the  Heaven- 
ly Blessing  hangs  over  them,  stand  there  in 
the  Morning,  as  if  by  their  own  power  they 
had  grown  out  of  the  Earth,  because  they  are 
so  beautiful,  and  every  one  gives  them  credit 
for  possessing  the  wonderful  Power  of  Self- 
production — in  like  manner,  an  inward  men- 
tal Sun  opens  up  as  suddenly  the  Flowers  in 
the  Head  of  the  Artist!  But  they  must  all 
(wait  patiently  till  their  time  comes,  and  he 
imust  wait  patiently  and  wear  them  for  a  long 
.time  as  Germ  and  Bud :  and  the  restlessness, 
[the  laying  on  of  the  Hand,  the  rubbing  of  the 
JBrow,  and  the  painful  Self-torture,  are  of  no 
i avail!  all  in  vain!  If  he  tries  this,  neverthe- 
lless,  then  he  is  only  a  Child  who  tears  up  a 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE.  89 

Still  closed  Snowdrop  along  with  its  Stalk, 
and  forces  it  open  with  his  Mouth ;  or  peels 
a  Butterfly  out  of  the  Chrysalis,  and  only  be- 
holds the  Wonder  of  incipient  Life — and 
then  destroys ! 

Master  Albert  now  often  dreamed  and  de- 
layed whole  Days ;  sat  down,  rose  up,  spoke 
to  himself,  drew  with  his  Slick  on  the  Sand, 
or  began  to  make  an  Eye  or  a  Nose  with 
black  Chalk ;  and  then  Agnes  called  him  a 
Child,  or  thought  that,  dissatisfied  with  her, 
he  held  Converse  with  his  owui  Soul.  Or  he 
walked  up  and  down  in  the  Garden,  stood 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  at  a  time  before  the 
trunk  of  a  Tree,  and  studied  its  wonderfully- 
bursting  Bark;  looked  up  to  the  Heavens, 
and  imprinted  on  his  memory  the  forms  of 
the  Clouds;  or  he  sat  before  the  door,  and 
called  thither  handsome  Children,  placed  one 
quite  in  the  Shade  of  the  Roof,  another  only 
half,  and  made  a  third  stand  in  the  full  Sun- 
shine, that  he  might  adjust  for  himself  the 


90  THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE. 

colours  of  the  dresses  in  Light  and  Shade ; 
or  he  accosted  old  Men  and  Women,  who 
came  to  him  just  as  if  they  had  been  sent  by 
God.  Then  Agnes  called  to  him,  and  said 
peevishly :  My  God  I  why  not  rather  work  ! 
thou  knowest  well,  we  need  it. 

I  do  work,  said  Albert.  My  Picture  is 
ready. 

God  grant  it!  sighed  she,  as  if  he  were 
lazy,  or  incapable. 

Just  consider,  my  Agnes,  said  he  then 
smiling :  does  t^e  Carver  carve  the  Forms ; 
does  the  Pencil  paint  ?  these  are  my  Spirits 
and  Slaves,  who  do  my  Will  when  I  call 
them. 

But  still  thou  canst  sit  down. 

I  certainly  can  do  so. 

If  thy  Pencil  would  only  move  of  itself! 
were  there  such  a  Pencil — then  we  should 
have  our  wants  supplied. 

I  would  burn,  I  would  banish  such  a  Pen- 
cil, as  if  it  were  an  Evil  Spirit!     I — I  must 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE.  91 

do  all  myself,  otherwise  I  should  no  longer 
be  myself.  That  were  just  the  same  as  if  a 
strange  Woman  were  to  love  and  foster  me 
instead  of  thee. 

Internal  Images  now  appeared  to  his  Mind, 
as  if  induced  by  constant  Devotion,  and  dis- 
closed to  his  sight  how  the  Crocus  appearing 
out  of  the  Earth,  tears  its  little  delicate  white 
Child's  Shirt ;  and  then  the  Master  glowed 
like  a  vessel  full  of  molten  Gold,  liquified 
and  pure  for  the  casting;  so  that  he  trem-! 
bled,  knew  nothing  more  of.  the  World,  and 
what  was  revealed  to  him  he  transferred  to 
the  Tablet  with  inspired  haste : — then  came 
Agnes  and  called  to  him  two  or  three  times, 
always  louder  and  louder,  about  some  Trifle. 
He  then  sprang  up,  neither  knowing  where 
he  had  been  nor  where  he  now  was;  the 
portals  of  the  Spiritual  Kingdom  closed  sud- 
denly, and  the  only  half  conjured-up  Images 
sank  back  into  Night,  and  into  Spiritual  i 
Death,  and  perhaps  never  returned  to  him, 


92  THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE. 


ih !  never  thus  again.  Then  he  recognized 
Agnes^  who,  angry  at  his  demeanor,  stood 
before  him  and  scolded  him  deaf  and  blind. 
Then  his  Blood  was  like  to  a  Spring  Flood 
he  seized  the  Charm-dispelling  Disturber 
violently  by  the  arm — and  held  her  thus  till 
he  awoke.  Then  he  said,  ashamed.  Is  it 
thou,  my  Wife  ?  I  was  not  here  just  now  I 
not  with  thee !  Forgive  me !  To  vex  even 
a  Child  is  more  inhuman  than  to  see  and 
paint  all  the  Angels,  and  to  hear  them  and 
one's  self  praised,  is  desirable.  Thou  also 
livest  in  a  beautiful  World — and  that  the 
Sun  and  Moon  shine  upon  it,  that  makes  it 
none  the  worse  I  Where  thou  art,  where 
I  am,  with  Soul  and  Feeling,  yea  with 
Fancy  and  her  Works,  that  is  to  me  the 
true,  the  holy  World!  And  now  he  smiled 
and  asked  her  mildly :  What  dost  thou  want 
with  me  then,  my  Child?  But  his  Eyes 
flashed. 

She,  however,  believed  that  she  had  looked 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE.  93 

upon  a  Demon !  a  Conjuror  of  Spirits !  She 
examined  the  red  mark  on  her  arm,  where 
he  had  seized  her;  Tears  gushed  from  her 
Eyes ;  she  bowed  down  and  lamented  :  Ah ! 
I  know  it,  I  have  it  always  in  my  mind — 
thou  wilt  certainly  one  day  murder  me ! 
Every  time  I  go  to  bed,  I  pray  that  I  may 
not  perish  in  my  Sins,  when  thou  again  art 
as  thou  art  now!  when  I  am  nothing  to 
thee! 

She  spoke  in  so  soft,  so  desponding  a 
tone,  and  yet  so  resigned  to  her  Fate  with 
him,  that  he  was  moved  to  Tears  by  her 
confused  words  and  frightened  appearance. 

Oh  thou,  my  Heavenly  Father!  sighed  he 
then,  and  stood  with  clasped  hands ;  till  at 
length  he  clasped  his  terrified  Wife,  who 
could  not  comprehend  him,  who  felt  so  pa- 
tient and  so  completely  in  his  power,  that  she 
would  not  even  scream  or  call  for  help,  if  he 
should Oh!  thou  heavenly  Father! 


94 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE. 


till  at  length  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  and 
felt  her  glowing  on  his  Cheek. 

Then  he  secretly  determined  with  himself 
to  yield  to  her  willingly  in  everything ;  to 
allow  her  to  rule  according  to  the  best  of  her 
Knowledge  and  Understanding,  and  lovingly 
to  endure  all  from  her,  and  to  do  everything 
to  please  her,  till  at  length,  instead  of  him,  a 
very  different,  a  cruel  Man  should  appear,  to 
execute  that  which  she  from  him — 

Oh!  thou  Heavenly  Father! 

As  soon  as  he  had  spoken.  Fear  was  at  an 
end ;  for  what  is  said^  no  longer  disquiets  a 
Woman,  nor  does  it  even  a  Poet. 

Agnes  now  thought  that  the  exhausting 
efforts  of  the  mind  would  confuse  his  senses 
— that  she  would  have  her  Suffering  with 
him — and  must  starve  in  old  age — perhaps 
in  youth !  or  his  abstracted  manner  of  Life 
might  draw  him  away,  as  it  had  done  from 
Men,  so  also  from  her,  from  his  Wife! — and 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE.  95 

thought  how  little  she  was  to  him,  and  of 
how  small  value. 

Nimnenbeck  the  Minstrel  and  Celtes  came 
to  visit  Albert.  Agnes  had  certainly  imparted 
her  fears  to  them.  There  was  also  a  Scholar 
of  Alberfsy  a  relative  of  Nimnenbeck,  who 
was  a  loose  fellow.  Therefore  Celtes  said, 
in  presence  of  them  all :  To  discriminate 
Ideas  is  to  discriminate  Life.  I  grant  that  he 
who  is  born  an  Artist  must  be  a  different, 
more  peculiar,  more  richly  endowed  person 
than  others.  He  is  the  Organ,  the  Medium 
through  which  the  creative  Mind  of  Nature 
is  still  glowing,  who  is  destined  to  continue 
the  work  she  has  only  just  begun,  by  Images 
drawn  from  her  secret  movements,  and  who 
moulds  the  outward  universal  Creation  into 
a  Human  Form.  Therefore,  his  Bosom  is  a 
moving  Depth,  full  of  Germs  and  Images, 
the  materials  for  a  more  beautiful  mental 
Spring.  Himself  the  Spirit  of  Nature,  he 
takes    a    thoughtful   interest   in   all   her   so 


96  THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE. 

beautifully-formed  Works :  the  Death  of  the 
Worm  moves  him  as  deeply  as  the  Death  of 
the  greatest  Man ;  for  it  is  Death  that  moves 
him.  All  Nature's  manifestations  are  reflect- 
ed in  the  warm  and  clear  Mirror  of  his  Soul. 
Love,  also,  which  enraptures  every  creature, 
breathes  and  glows  on  him  sacredly ;  and 
under  the  influence  of  this  glowing  Fulness, 
yea  in  the  midst  of  it,  he  can  scarcely  contain 
his  Felicity  in  thoughts  which  stream  over 
£l11  things.  Ah !  and  he  struggles  to  tell  of 
the  Godly,  and  to  lament  the  Sorrowful — to 
penetrate  all  which  has  been  from  Eternity, 
which  near  and  around  him  rules,  and  over 
his  Grave  will  still  eternally  rule.  And  this 
Poiver  of  Contemplation,  this  Impvlse  pro- 
ceeding from  the  Power,  makes  him  an  Ax- 
list 

But,  interrupted  Nimnenbeck,  does  he  then 
tear  himself  loose  from  his  Mother  Nature 
when  he  enters  on  the  career  of  an  Artist? 
can  he  no  longer  make  use  of  her  Laws  ? 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE.  97 

Is  he  no  longer  moved  by  the  Actual  around 
him  ? — has  he  no  Joy,  no  Sorrow,  no  more 
any  individual  Life  in  Nature — does  he  cease 
to  be  a  Man,  if  he  would  become  one  of  the 
most  glorious  of  his  Generation  ?  Does  no- 
thing living  any  more  allure,  disappoint,  ex- 
cite and  enrapture  him  ?  and  is  his  Life  only 
the  Dream  of  his  Soul,  and  its  Capacities 
what  he  must  dream  of  ? 

Alas  for  him !  said  Celtes,  if  he  could  and 
must  do  this!  then  were  he  more  miserable 
than  one  of  the  most  neglected  Creatures  of 
his  loving  Mother!  But  he  has  also  Fancy 
in  which  to  live ! 

He  dwells  in  no  remote,  subterranean,  or 
celestial  kingdom,  proceeded  Nunnenbeck; 
he  dwells  in  the  Kernel  of  Nature.  He  is 
not  solitary,  but  like  an  Enchanter  alone, 
awfully  alone  with  the  conjured-up  Spirits, 
and  thus  in  the  most  dignified  and  fullest 
Society  of  all  the  Living  and  the  Dead.  He 
continues  to  be  a  Man,  subject  to  all  the 

7 


98  THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE. 

]aws  of  waking  and  sleeping,  of  hunger  and 
thirst,  and  to  all  the  conditions  of  Existence, 
as  strictly  as  a  day-labourer.     He  has  not  nor 
can  he  subject  himself  to  these  Spirits,  for  his 
own  Spirit  is  greater  than  all.     He  does  not 
^  build  his  marvellous  Palace  on  the  Wrecks  of 
this  spell-like  Nature,  but  he  adopts  all  her 
Laws,  even  the  smallest  and  most  delicate, 
j  in  his  Ideas  and  Images ; — if  he  would  make 
;  himself  intelligible   and   valuable   to    Men, 
then  he  must  invent  and  create  according  to 
the  most  universal  Laws,  which  the  smallest 
may   understand    and    recognize — and    his 
Power  is  not  derived  from  Nature,  to  be  used 
against  Nature,  but  ivith  her ;  and  it  is  his 
f   Life  and  his  Glory  to  follow  -her  as  far  and 
as  faithfully  as  it  is  possible  for  him  to  follow 
her.     For  the  Human  Race  must  not  receive 
1  through  his  means  a  contorted,  false,  illusive 
I  Nature ;  but  every  one  if  possible  must  see 
I  his  own  Heart's  Kernel,  that  he  may  under- 
stand the  Miracles  which  were  not  so  clear 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE.  99 

to  his  own  contemplation.  In  this  way- 
alone,  he  raises  also  to  the  all-powerful 
Mother,  the  insiped,  unthinking,  and  passive, 
whose  Senses  are  all  bound  down  by  the 
Exigencies  of  Life.  Through  him  they  see 
that  Nature  is  not  so  common  as  they  are 
common :  through  him,  in  fine,  they  behold 
the  whole  Beauty  of  the  World,  the  whole 
Depth  which  is  in  the  Mind  of  Man,  and 
which  the  Initiated  bring  to  light.  But  when 
the  Artist  descends  to  search  out  the  Trea- 
sures of  the  Deep,  still  he  is  like  the  Miner, 
who  has  his  House  and  his  Wife  above  in 
the  Sunshine! 

AgTies  looked  at  the  excellent  old  Man, 
and  blushed.  Therefore  he  was  silent,  and 
Celtes,  the  subtle  Judge  of  Mankind,  turned 
the  conversation  still  further  to  Alberts  ad- 
van  i  age. 

Yes,  as  he  loves  the  World,  said  he,  so  the 
World  loves  him  in  return ;  they  cannot  do 
without  each  other.     And  even  the  severest 


100  THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE. 

Capuchin  is  in  the  right,  when  he  censures 
the  Artist  who  does  not  in  the  strictest  man- 
ner fulfil  the  Moral  Laws  of  Nature; — for 
that  was  what  I  meant  by  my  first  words. 
The  gift  of  Fancy,  and  the  gift  of  Reverence 
for  the  Godlike,  are  two  very  different  quali- 
ties in  Man ;  and  it  is  only  by  their  union 
that  a  truly  perfect  Man  is  known.  What 
makes  him  an  Artist  is,  that,  to  outward 
appearance  quite  a  simple  Man,  he  yet  can 
mount  into  the  region  of  Fancy  as  often  as 
he  ivill.  ,  But  it  is  only  as  a  pure  Being,  as  an 
Angel,  that  he  can  enter  therein.  Those  who 
are  but  seldom  inspired — the  tumultuous, 
only  once  or  twice  excited — are  ungenuine 
Spirits:  they  sink  as  deep  as  they  soared 
high.  Nature  gives  to  the  genuine  Artist, 
with  his  Birth,  the  true  Elevation,  the  Great- 
ness of  Mind  necessary  for  lifelong  unvary- 
ing Endurance  day  and  night ;  and  from  her 
comes  every  daily  breath,  every  word — so 
that  he  feels,  suffers,  and  rejoices  in  every- 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE.  101 

thing,  under  every  lot,  and  in  all  circum- 
stances. And  thus  he  sits,  apparently  like 
one  mute  or  blind,  yea  as  a  Child  among 
Children,  and  dwells  meanwhile — although 
with  them,  yet  wherever  he  will,  in  Heaven 
or  in  Hell.  It  is  only  the  constant,  unremit- 
ting Power  which  gives  the  stamp  to  the 
genuine  Calling;  and  from  that  Power  he 
has  Occupation,  Name,  Work,  and  Happi- 
ness. And  if  he  wilfully  close  the  Realm  of 
Fancy,  then  he  becomes  subject  to  the  small- 
est Law  of  the  exterior  World,  and  more  so 
indeed  of  his  Love  and  of  his  Conscience, 
which  are  the  tenderest  and  purest  Laws  in 
the  World. 

Dost  thou  hear?  said  Nunnenbeck  to  his 
young  relative,  and  seized  him  by  the  hand. 
Wherever  thou  beholdest  a  dissolute  Artist, 
my  Son,  even  if  it  were  only  his  Shadow, 
then  think :  he  is  no  Artist,  has  never  been 
one  fundamentally,  or  will  soon  be  one  no 
longer ;  for  the  Conflict  between  two  Passions 


102 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE. 


drags  even  the  strongest  person  to  Death. 
Human  Nature  can  endure  a  Fault,  and 
more  so  if  it  contains  an  elevating,  ever-vivi- 
fying Power.  No  one  dies  by  the  effusions 
of  such  a  Power :  it  is  the  renovating  Joy  of 
his  Life.  But  he  who  is  a  Giant  in  Fancy, 
may  be  a  Negro  Child  in  Morals ;  and  the 
Child  drags  the  Giant  into  the  abyss.  For 
these  are  certainly  opposite — but  may  be 
found  united  in  the  same  person.  And  every 
one,  be  he  who  he  may,  is  and  must  remain 
a  Man,  a  Moral  Being,  and  may  least  of  all 
give  himself  up  to  the  Devil,  that  he  may  re- 
veal God  by  his  Art. 

In  addition  to  all  these  doubts,  Agnes  had 
also  others  which  were  tender  and  womanly. 
Albert  was  willing  to  give  her  every  proof 
of  his  Love,  till  she  was  convinced.  But  he 
did  not  succeed,  owing  to  a  hundred  new 
occurrences. 

The  faithful,  modest  Susanna^  ate  with 
them  at  Table.     First  of  all,  that  was  an  Of- 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE.  103 

fence.  But  Albert  also  spoke  with  her  when 
he  was  alone.  There  was  nothing  more 
painful  to  him,  than,  in  a  House  where  only 
two  or  three  live  together,  to  force  one's  self 
to  be  silent  out  of  mere  Haughtiness,  and  to 
treat  the  Servants,  whether  male  or  female, 
as  Mutes,  who  are  yet  Human  Beings  like 
ourselves ;  for  nothing  makes  us  more  con- 
temptible in  the  eyes  of  others,  than  when 
they  dare  not  talk  to  us  because  we  seem  to 
despise  them,  and  do  really  despise  them.  \ 
Now  Agnes  suspected,  when  he  broke  off  a 
Conversation  with  Susanna  whenever  she  en- 
tered, that  it  had  been  about  her :  therefore 
she  must  be  dismissed  from  the  House.  He 
would  not  agree  to  it.  Then  came  still  more 
evil  times ;  and  at  last  he  was  obliged  to  let 
her  go,  because  a  Wretch  seduced  the  poor 
young  Creature.  And  secretly  to  protect  her 
from  want — that  was  dangerous:  therefore 
he  must  see  the  poor  Girl  with  her  Child  go 


104 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE. 


aboat  begging — and  he  actually  saw  it — but 
with  secret  Tears  and  Sighs. 

At  another  time  there  came  a  Worker  in 
Tapestry  from  Arras  and  dwelt  with  him — 
and  also  ate  and  drank.  To  be  sure,  that 
cost  Money — it  cannot  be  denied.  But  the 
Man,  who  was  going  to  Rome,  to  collect 
large  sums  of  Money,  and  to  take  new  orders, 
had  also  a  Son  with  him,  a  Painter,  whom 
Albert  had  known  before  in  the  Netherlands. 
This  young  Man  was  not  likely  to  awaken 
confidence  in  the  Minds  of  upright  Women, 
for  he  was  very  flighty  and  loose  in  his  con- 
duct. Now  Ag-nes  judged  of  all  her  Hus- 
band's foreign  acquaintances  from  this  Man. 
Albert  had  had  no  other  intercourse  with  him 
but  concerning  his  Art:  as  a  Man,  he  had 
allowed  him  to  go  his  own  way.  And  a  Man 
can  only  pass  through  the  world  pure,  when 
he  sucks  in  nourishment  for  his  oicn  life,  like 
the  Flowers  from  the  universal  Ether.     Thus 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE.  105 

he  may  occupy  himself  with  Plants  and  Ani- 
mals in  as  far  as  they  are  beneficial  to  him, 
without  becoming  a  Rose-bush  or  a  Bear. 
The  young  Man's  Sister  was  also  with  them, 
a  blooming  young  creature,  to  whom  Albert 
had  been  kind  in  her  girlish  years,  and  who 
now,  when  grown,  hung  on  him  the  more 
confidingly.  To  dispel  the  doubts  of  Agnes 
in  this  matter  also,  he  asked  the  Maiden  one 
day  at  table,  whether  she  recollected  in  what 
year  he  had  visited  her  Father.  And  the 
mention  of  the  year  drew  forth  from  her  so 
much  about  the  happy  days  of  her  Youth, 
which  a  Child  alone  could  remember,  that 
Agnes  was  convinced  in  her  own  mind.  But 
she  was  angry  at  her  experiment  in  Arithme- 
tic, and  at  his  Smile. 

In  consequence  of  this  Conversation,  Ag' 
nes  now  asked  Albert  to  tell  her  all  about  his 
Travels.  He  dared  not  hesitate.  And  so  he 
was  obliged  to  conceal  many  things  from  her, 
and  also  where  he  had  received  much  Love 


106  THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE. 

and  Kindness,  which  made  his  grateful  Heart 
very  sorrowful.  He  also  felt  his  Deficiencies 
in  many  things,  and  saw  now,  for  the  first 
time,  as  he  believed,  what  a  much  wiser  and 
more  profitable  Use  he  might  have  made  of 
his  Travels,  of  the  advantages  of  the  Places, 
and  of  the  dexterity  of  the  Masters !  But 
it  appeared  so  to  him,  only  because  he  was 
now  wiser  and  further  advanced  in  his  Art. 
For  Man  sees  and  understands  only  accord- 
ing to  the  Measure  of  his  own  Power  and 
Art.  Of  this,  however,  he  was  certain,  that 
he  was  now  capable  of  observing  and  learn- 
ing more  than  formerly ;  and  he  oftentimes 
expressed  the  wish  once  again  to  behold  these 
glorious  Lands ;  and  the  longing  thereafter, 
proceeding  from  the  Depths  of  his  Soul,  was 
almost  painfully  reflected  in  his  countenance. 
Ag-nes  fancied  that  he  might  possess  or 
miss  some  God,  which  he  had  left  or  lost 
there.  She  had  everything  in  Him,  and  he 
had  Her. 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE.  107 

At  another  time,  he  advised  a  young  un- 
cultivated Artist  against  taking  a  Wife,  be- 
cause he  did  not  think  him  sufficiently- 
strengthened  and  confirmed  in  his  Vocation ; 
and  he  was  driven  about  by  a  Disquietude, 
which  had  not  yet  allowed  him  steadily  to 
seek  the  golden  Portals  to  the  Treasures  of 
the  Soul,  of  Life,  and  of  his  Art;  and  he 
still  looked  abroad  for  what  lay  in  himself 
alone,  but  undiscovered  and  unsatisfied. 

From  this  Warning  Agnes  concluded  that 
Albert  was  dissatisfied  with  his  own  Mar- 
riage, and  she  remained  whole  days  in  the 
house  of  her  Parents.  He  went  for  her  in  the 
evenings — to  avoid  the  risk  of  her  not  re- 
turning at  all !  When  Husband  and  Wife 
weigh  every  word  before  it  is  uttered,  then 
there  is  scarcely  any  more  free  Intercourse, 
and  the  Restraint  must  be  doubled. 

The  usages  of  Society  are  certainly  conve- 
nient ;  they  even  give  Unity,  Simplicity,  and 
a  certain  steady  bearing  to  a  multifariously- 


108 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE. 


assailed  Life,  and  also  a  seeming  Greatness 
to  the  Mind.  Yet,  under  certain  circum- 
stances, they  are  also  constraining  and  un- 
welcome. A  proof  of  this  may  here  be  ad- 
duced. Agnes  would  not  rise  from  table, 
nor  allow  herself  to  be  disturbed  in  eating. 
"  When  any  one,  more  especially  the  IVIis- 
tress,  has  not  Rest  at  such  times,  then  is  her 
whole  Life  nothing  but  vain  Toil,  and  with- 
out proper  Refreshment.  It  is  then  one 
comes  at  least  once  a-day  to  recollection,  and 
every  thing  at  table  appears  to  us  pleasant 
and  agreeable  to  the  Eye,  as  the  Food  or  the 
Wine  to  the  Palate." 

Not  untrue,  and  well  argued. 

When  she  was  in  a  good  humour,  when 
the  Roast  was  at  the  Fire,  and  the  Table  was 
ready  covered  with  nice  Linen,  then  she  was 
so  pleased  with  every  thing  in  the  House — 
that  she  was  off  like  meadow  water,  and 
stood  gossiping  with  some  female  neighbour. 
These  were  her  favourite  moments.     The 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE.  109 

Master,  knowing  this,  waited  patiently  for 
her,  and  lived  meanwhile  in  Flemish  Kitchen 
Scenes.  On  the  contrary,  if  he  remained 
out  a  quarter  of  an  hour  beyond  Dinner- 
time, she  had  dined  quickly;  the  table  was 
cleared,  and  he  might  look  to  it,  and  take 
what  he  could  get.  He  considered  such  a 
day  as  a  voluntary  Fast-day,  and  was  satiated 
with  Contentment.  But  if  he  reminded  her 
of  the  words  from  the  Ceremonial  Address, 
"  Be  ye  Hospitable,"  then  she  said  jeeringly, 
So!  thou  art  an  Angel!  Where  are  then 
thy  Wings  ?  and  what  is  thy  Heavenly 
Name? 

And  he  answered,  whilst  she  felt  his  Shoul- 
ders, I  am  only  called  Albert^  and  am  thy 
dear  Husband ! 

My  dear  ?  how  dost  thou  know  that,  then, 
my  Angel!  said  she.  Then  he  went  mildly 
away  from  her — but  she  sprang  hastily  after 
him,  and  he  remained  mute  in  her  mute  em- 
brace. 


110 


THE    YEAR    OF    STRIFE. 


All  these  things  put  together  were  power- 
ful from  their  union,  and,  like  a  Bundle  of 
Reeds,  could  scarcely  be  bent,  far  less  broken. 
And  thus  ended  the  Year  of  Strife,  without 
any  real  Treaty  of  Peace,  which  in  general 
is  never  solemnly  concluded  nor  formally 
celebrated.  So  it  was  to  be  throughout  all 
the  succeeding  Years !  As  old  secret  Reser- 
:;^  vations  are  the  cause  of  new  Declarations  of 
War — so  is  it  between  two  Monarchs  in 
Marriage. 


is^-^^ii 


A  LITTLE   AGNES. 

Beauty  does  not  supersede  all  other  claims 
on  a  Woman ;  on  the  contrary,  it  should 
draw  them  forth,  as  the  Sun  does  the  Flow- 
ers, in  order  that  they  may  be  all  so  much 
the  more  sweetly  and  charmingly  fulfilled. 
For  it  is  wonderful  how  much  Beauty  ex- 
cites the  Imagination ;  how  much  it  covers, 
and  outshines,  and  consecrates,  so  that  a 
beautiful  Countenance  alone  makes  a  mor- 
tal Woman  already  an  Angel,  and  even  a 
Hair  from  her  Eyelid  appears  and  is  no  lon- 
ger a  Hair — it  is  a  Miracle,  like  the  beautiful 
Woman  herself.  And  Agnes  was  beautiful 
— so  beautiful !  But  Albert  looked  upon  her 
almost  with  sadness,  almost  with  pity,  be- 
cause she—'^h !  because  she  was  so  beauti- 
ful.    Beauty  is  only  one  gift  of  Nature !  only 


112  A    LITTLE    AGNES. 

l'  a  gift  to  Woman  !  The  Woman  herself  is 
J  the  Being  who  receives  it.  But  as  is  the 
)  Woman,  so  does  she  receive,  and  so  does 
1  she  use  the  Godly  Gift.  Yea  as  she  is,  so 
i  becomes,  and  so  appears  also  at  last,  her 
Beauty. 

Yet 

A  little  Agnes,  who  now  appeared,  gave  to 
Albert's  Wife  the  Radiance,  yea  the  Glory 
of  the  Mother.  Thus  the  Deity  continued  to 
bless  her  I  Agnes  was  the  sacred  Instrument 
in  His  Hands,  and  the  most  mysterious,  the 
most  divine  Powers  of  old  Nature  were  thus 
granted  to  her  as  it  were  in  Fief.  Albert 
being  now  filled  with  Reverence,  Rapture, 
Satisfaction,  and  Thankfulness,  all  was  well, 
better  than  ever,  and  his  Love  was  now 
nobly  founded,  and  hers  justified,  if  not 
more. 

For  Agnes  also  felt  in  her  Heart  as  if 
newly-born,  and  secretly  bound  by  her  Hus- 
band's unwearied  care.     He  watched  over 


A    LITTLE    AGNES. 


113 


Mother  and  Child.  No  breath  of  air  should 
blow  upon  them ;  and  when  both  the  dear 
Ones  slumbered,  then  he  hastened  away  to 
draw  and  to  paint ;  and,  to  his  own  amaze- 
ment, he  quickly  and  beautifully  completed 
a  Picture  of  the  Nativity,  and  one  of  the 
Adoration,  with  the  three  Holy  Kings.* 
The  Picture  seemed  as  if  speaking.  And 
then  he  blessed  the  Path  he  had  chosen! 
His  own  Life  opened  up  to  him  an  unknown 
portion  both  of  the  World,  and  of  his  Art, 
and  he  felt  that  he  was  now  the  Man  to  pro- 
duce quite  different  and  truer  Works.     Na- 

*  The  wise  men  of  the  East  who  came  to  Bethlehem  were 
vulgarly  called  Kings,  but  were  very  probably  of  a  subordi- 
nate rank.  TertuUian  calls  them  Princes,  and  others  con- 
cur in  supposing  them  to  have  been  Governors  or  petty 
Princes,  such  having  been  anciently  denominated  Kings. 
Bede,  Benedict  XIV.,  and  others,  declared  their  number  to 
have  been  three.  An  ancient  commentary  on  St.  Matthew, 
preserved  among  the  writings  of  St.  Chrysostom,  says  that 
they  were  baptized  in  Persia  by  the  Apostle  St.  Thomas, 
and  thereafter  became  preachers  of  the  Gospel. — Translator. 


114  A    LITTLE    AGNES. 

J  ture  in  her  Divinity  had  never  yet  presented 
I  herself  before  him  so  closely  and  so  sacredly ! 
And  he  felt  fresher  than  in  the  blooming 
Month  of  May  after  a  mild  fertilizing  Tem- 
pest.     The    Ideas   which    have   once   been 
cleared  up  to  the  Artist  remain  eternally  clear 
in  his   Mind.     He  directs  himself  to  these 
bright  points  of  his  inner  Life  when  he  wish- 
es to  model-^then  he  can  dream  and  create ! 
From  this  source  all  is  Real !     He  has  felt 
j  I  what  he  wishes  to  represent ; — he  may  change 
'and  transpose;  then  unfold,  and  convey  his 
lildeas  to  other  Men:  and  his  Work  will  al- 
jjways  spring  from  the  Heart  and  go  to  the 
i^Heart  again.     Therefore  he  must  have  expe- 
jrienced  the  greatest,  the  simplest,  the  most 

jbeautiful,  and  the  saddest  Events  of  Nature 

i 

•and  of  human  Life  in  general, — he  must 
have  felt  the  highest  Joy  and  the  deepest  Sor- 
row— and  whoever  has  trod  the  noble  path 
;of  Human  Life  with  an  observing  mind — 
and  that  is  peculiar  to  the  Artist — to  him  are 


A    LITTLE    AGNES.  115 

none  of  these  awanting.  But  it  is  enough  for 
him,  that  his  Fancy  embraces  Nature  in  its 
simplicity !  He  need  not  have  been  the  Mur- 
derer of  innumerable  Children,  in  order  to 
represent  the  Massacre  of  the  Innocents — if  j 
he  only  has  and  loves  one  living  Child,  and  j 
think — it  may  die !  He  need  not  have  drain- 
ed the  Cup  of  Vice  to  the  dregs,  that  he  may 
paint  Lucreiia — if  he  only  has  a  Wife,  or 
has  ever  possessed  one,  whom  he  loves,  and 
thinks — the  proud  King's  son  may  appear  be- 
fore her  with  the  Poniard  or  with  Dishonour. 
He  need  not  have  gone  to  beg  his  Bread  that 
he  may  draw  the  Prodigal — ^if  he  has  only 
been  a  good  Son,  who  loves  his  Father ; — 
the  Tatters  are  found  then.  Thus  the  Artist 
hits  everything,  whatever  it  may  be,  faithfully 
and  truly,  if  he  has  always  been  a  genuine 
Man,  attentive  to  the  plainest,  simplest  con- 
ditions of  Nature.  Only  in  this  sense,  then, 
these  words  are  no  Blasphemy :  The  Artist 
must  have  experienced  what  he  wishes  to 


116  A    LITTLE    AGNES. 

Ij  create.  Thus  indeed  he  has  experienced 
everything;  and  though  simple  and  natural 
himself,  he  can  yet  easily  represent  the  Un- 
natural. The  Artist's  first  Power,  then,  is  his 
own  pure  Heart ;  the  second,  his  Fancy ;  the 
third,  the  faculty  of  conceiving  everything 
that  comes  from  his  Heart,  as  from  a  true  in- 
exhaustible Source,  to  be  afterwards  woven 
by  Fancy. 

Albert  brought  the  Pictures  to  Agmes. 
The  sight  of  them  rejoiced  her;  but  she 
looked  at  the  Child  and  said :  These  are  still 
nothing  but  Pictures  after  all!  Who  has  be- 
spoken them  ?  and  what  wilt  thou  receive  for 
them? 

They  are  already  paid — through  you  and 
my  own  joy!  said  he,  somewhat  mortified. 
It  is  true,  they  were  only  Pictures — and  be- 
cause he  himself  now  possessed  more  than 
Pictures,  he  saw  also,  that  the  Mother  pos- 
sessed more,  and  that  she  had  spoken  quite 
naturally  and  justly.     So  he  willingly  learned 


A    LITTLE    AGNES.  117 

this  also, — that  a  living  Work  of  God  is  of 
more  value  than  all  the  Works  of  Men,  and 
that  these  only  exist  and  can  exist — ^because 
those  are.  For  it  is  folly  to  think  that  Man 
has  produced  anything  of  himself!  The 
Great  Master  in  Heaven  gives  the  Conception 
for  the  fair  work,  the  Power  of  accomplishing 
it,  Joy  to  Men  in  beholding  it,  as  well  as  the 
living  work  from  his  own  Hand — the  high- 
est and  godliest  of  all. 

Therefore  Albert  prized  the  little  creature 
as  a  rich  Blessing  from  his  Heavenly  Father. 
Be  ye  hospitable,  said  he  to  himself,  for 
thereby  some  have  entertained  Angels.  And 
by  these  words  he  was  transported  back  in 
thought  to  the  day  when  he  stood  in  the 
Church,  and  the  Maiden  Agnes  stood  beside 
him,  and  now  in  fancy  he  put  the  little  Ag- 
nes into  her  arms,  and  the  Bride  stood — as  a 
Mother  I  All  that  had  afterwards  taken  place 
seemed  to  him  then  as  a  thing  of  the  Past ;  and 
the  Softness  with  which  his  heart  overflowed 


118  A    LITTLE    AGNES. 

was  reflected  backwards,  and  warmed  the 
long  days,  in  which  in  strange  lands  he  had 
languished  in  vain  for  such  Happiness — also 
those  in  which  he  had  been  so  cool  to  the 
Mother  of  his  little  Daughter.  From  this 
time  forth  he  determined  always  to  look  upon 
her  as  the  Mother,  even  if  the  Child 

He  did  not  finish  the  Thought,  but  silently 
supplicated  Heaven  to  spare  its  Life. 

The  Mother,  however,  was  dissatisfied 
with  what  she  called  his  excessive  Solicitude, 
and  repulsed  him.  And  thus  there  remained 
to  him  only  the  choice,  either  of  offending 
her,  or  of  bringing  perhaps  Distress  upon  him- 
self by  her  want  of  Consideration  and  youth- 
ful Rashness.  And  he  chose  the  perhaps  ! 
— and  prayed  that  it  mig-ht  not^  nay,  that  it 
might  surely  not  come  to  pass.  For  he 
could  not  and  did  not  wish  to  think  of  any 
one  of  the  three  without  the  others. 

A  Nurse  was  needed,  and  the  faithful  ser- 
vices of  the  poor  Susanna  were  remembered, 


A    LITTLE    AGNES.  119 

who,  in  spite  of  her  Expulsion,  yet  carried 
no  Tales  out  of  the  House,  and  she  was  ac- 
cordingly brought  back  again. 

Susanna^  however,  had  a  Mark  upon  her 
arm,  a  little  Blood-red  Cross,  which  some 
time  before  had  fallen  as  if  from  Heaven  all 
of  a  sudden  on  many  people,  and  which  Al- 
bert^ on  account  of  its  singularity,  had  even 
copied.  Susanna  had  formerly  often  stretch- 
ed out  her  bare  arm  at  table  after  dinner,  and 
Agones  had  seen,  admired,  and  touched  the 
Mark,  and  traced  it  on  her  Cheek  with  her  fin- 
ger; and  now  it  turned  out  that  the  little  Agnes 
had  a  small  Purple  Cross  on  her  right  Cheek. 

On  this  account  Ag'nes  did  not  care  so 
much  for  her  Daughter,  and  would  willingly 
have  sent  back  the  dear  Child  to  its  Heavenly 
Father — and  begged  Him  for  another,  but  if 
possible  to  select  one  for  herself  out  of  the  in- 
numerable Host  in  the  Storehouse  of  Mortals. 

The  Child  was  as  like  her  Father  as  if  he 
had  become  little  again,  and  a  Girl ;  and  he 


120  A    LITTLE    AGNES. 

remarked  to  Agnes  in  thoughtless  sport,  how 
much  trouble  she  had  with  him,  how  much 
she  loved  and  kissed  and  caressed  him,  and 
took  pleasure  in  toying  with  him. 

Therefore  the  Child  got  no  more  Kisses 
from  her  in  his  presence,  and  at  last  Susanna 
had  it  always  in  her  lap. 

The  little  Girl  however  was  sickly,  and 
gave  small  promise  of  Life  or  of  being  rear- 
ed, and  therefore  the  Love  of  the  Mother 
shrunk  back,  perhaps  from  insupportable  Sad- 
ness; for  she  had  once  with  difficulty  sup- 
pressed her  Tears,  when  she  looked  at  her 
pale  little  One ;  and  as  if  she  were  already 
lost,  she  tried  to  compose  and  comfort  her- 
self that  she  might  first  appear  indifferent,  and 
then  in  the  end  become  really  so.  And  the 
ever  sickly,  ever  sad-tempered  Child,  who 
was  but  seldom  satisfied  with  anything,  de- 
served in  this  way  the  dissatisfaction  of  the 
Mother.  Albert  thus  accounted  for  the 
change  in  her  Feelings. 


A    LITTLE    AGNES.  121 

The  Child  was  two  years  old.  She  was 
to  have  had  a  little  golden  Hood  and  a  pretty 
white  Frock  for  her  Birth-day — but  the  day 
came,  and  Agnes  had  not  got  them  finished. 
He  took  her,  unadorned  as  she  was,  to  his 
Bosom.  Thus  the  little  Girl  went  quite  over 
to  the  Father.  She  stood  near  him  when  he 
painted  or  carved ;  he  played  with  her,  and 
neglected  Art  as  often  as  willingly,  that  he 
might  learn  something  from  Life  instead. 
She  held  him  fast  in  her  little  arms  till  she 
fell  asleep ;  and  even  then  he  remained  yet  a 
while  by  her,  that  he  might  enjoy  the  few, 
the  blessed  hours,  in  which  the  Father  still 
possessed  a  Child  I  How  thoughtful,  and 
yet  how  thoughtless,  he  looked  on,  when  she 
washed  out  his  pencil  in  pure  water,  or 
brought  colours  to  him!  How  tenderly  he 
listened,  and  yet  liked  not  to  listen,  when  the 
Child  said  for  her  Evening  Prayer  the  little 
Verse : 


122  A    LITTLE    AGNES. 

Ah !  dear  God,  I  pray  thee, 
A  pious  Child  make  me ! 
Rather  than  I  should  stray. 
Take  me  from  Earth  away; 
Take  me  to  thy  Heaven  of  Light, 
Make  me  like  the  Angels  bright! 

Or  when  she  began  the  Lord's    Prayer: 
Our  Father  which  art  in  Heaven ! 

The  Child  now  attached  herself  to  him 
alone.     And  whom  has  a  Child,  but  Father 
and  Mother  ?     They  are  all  to  it ;  they  can 
destroy  or  preserve  it.     Without  them  it  is 
deprived  of  counsel,  helpless ;  and  even  the 
morsel  of  Bread  or  the  Apple,  which   God 
has  given  to  the  Parents,  it  receives  from  their 
I  hands.      How   high   and   powerful   does   a 
1   Father  appear  to  a  Child!     Only  because  it 
I  knows  and  loves  him,  it  learns  to  love  and 
i  know  the  Heavenly  Father.     The  Child  be- 
comes all  that  he  wishes — and  what  must  he 
be,  whom  that  does  not  move  ?   who  would 
not  bend,  even  to  the  Lips  of  the  little  sigh- 
ing Image  ? 


A    LITTLE    AGNES.  123 

Under  the  influence  of  such  feelings,  Al- 
bert certainly  spoiled  the  little  Agnes ^  who 
stood  so  much  in  need  of  his  care.  But  he 
had  the  Heart,  and  the  confiding  tender  Na- 
ture of  an  Artist ;  and  he  resolved  that  these 
should  overflow  towards  his  little  Daughter, 
for  the  short  time  she  had  to  live.  As  he 
highly  respected  every  Human  Being,  and 
from  true  Reverence  took  ofl"  his  Bonnet  to 
all,  and  held  it  in  his  hand,  so  was  a  Child 
also  to  him  an  Angel,  and  his  Child — his 
good  Angel,  whom  he  had  to  entertain,  and 
felt  so  blest  to  be  permitted  to  do  so.  And 
so  he  must  paint  for  her  God  the  Father, 
the  Angels,  and  the  beautiful  meek  Apostle 
John.  He  gave  her  Milk,  or  Honey,  to  nour- 
ish the  Flowers,  or  a  drop  of  Wine  to  pro- 
long the  Lives  of  those  that  were  fading 
away;  or  he  gave  her  the  finest  Flowers 
even,  that  she  might  press  them  into  the  hand 
of  the  Infant  Christ — and  when  they  fell,  she 
wept   that  it  would   not  take  them.      Her 


124  A    LITTLE    AGNES. 

Mother  called  all  that  Folly,  or  a  wasting  of 
the  gifts  of  God.  Then  when  Winter  had 
arrived  and  the  Birds  came  thronging  to  the 
windows,  hungry  and  covered  with  Snow, 
he  persuaded  the  Child,  who  was  now  nearly 
three  years  old,  that  they  came  to  greet  her 
from  old  Father  Winter  with  an  Icicle  in- 
stead of  a  Beard,  and  remained  now  to  see 
her ;  and  that  they  were  glad  when  she  was 
neat  and  prettily  dressed.  Then  the  Father 
could  work!  for  she  sat  at  the  window  for 
hours,  nicely  dressed  in  her  Mother's  golden 
Hood,  in  order  that  the  Sparrows  might 
rejoice  over  her.  Or  when  he  described  to 
I  her  the  distress  of  the  poor  Birds,  and  how 
:  cold  they  were,  then  she  sewed  a  little  warm 
Coat  for  the  Snow-king,  which  indeed  was 
never  finished,  for  the  silk  thread  had  no 
knot,  and  always  came  through.  When  she 
found  in  the  street  one  day  a  frozen  Yellow- 
hammer  with  a  bright  golden  crest,  she  wept, 
thinking  that  the  Snow-king  had  been  frozen 


A    LITTLE    AGNES.  125 

— and  that  she  was  the  cause  of  his  Death, 
because  she  had  not  made  his  Winter  Cloth- 
ing. But  her  Father  showed  her  another 
that  was  flying  joyfully — and  then  she  laugh- 
ed loud  with  delight,  and  was  not  angry  that 
he  had  so  terrified  her!  Whatever  he  gave, 
he  said  of  it :  God  sent  it  to  her ;  God  blows 
away  the  clouds;  God  paints  early  in  the 
morning  the  Flowers  on  the  panes  of  glass. 
And  do  we  grown  Children  understand  bet- 
ter or  more  devoutly  ?  In  short,  an  Artist, 
who  does  not  marry^  and  has  not  Children, 
or  has  not  had  them,  has  never  been  in  the 
World,  never  yet  in  the  beauteous  tender 
World  which  he  must  experience — even  if  it 
should  cost  him  Thousands  of  Tears. 

For  all  that — and  it  was  then  compared 
with  such  infinite  Happiness  only  a  sweet 
Punishment — the  Mother  always  called  the 
little  ghl  to  him  Thy  Child !  When  in  his 
absence  she  had  wished  to  help  him  on  with 
his  Paintings,  and  spoiled  here  and  there  a 


126  A    LITTLE    AGNES. 

drapery  in  the  Picture  by  an  ill-conducted 
pencil,  the  Mother  said  when  he  came  back : 
Thy  Child  did  it ; — if  Drawings  were  quite 
disfigured  w^ith  black  chalk,  so  that  they 
could  not  be  recognised,  or  Papers  cut  to 
pieces,  which  the  Mother  herself  considered 
to  be— only  Paper,  then  it  was :  Thy  Child 
did  it!  For  her  Mother  never  restrained  her, 
and  the  Father  could  do  nothing  else  than 
mildly  reprove  what  the  Daughter  had  meant 
so  well.     Then  Agnes  smiled  and  left  them. 

But  the  Feelings  of  Children  are  incon- 
ceivably delicate  and  just.  Little  Agnes  soon 
saw  how  unhappy  her  Father  was  in  his 
Home,  how  little  he  was  valued.  Albert  had 
perceived  and  learnt,  first  of  all,  from  her  own 
Mouth,  how  much  it  grieved  the  loving  little 
One  to  see  him  so  ill  used.  He  saw  it  also 
in  her  soft  blue  Eyes.  But  he  saw  it  meekly 
and  silendy. 

When  Albert  visited  a  Friend  one  day 
against  the  inclinations  of  Agnes,  who  feared 


A    LITTLE    AGNES.  127 

that  he  might  perhaps  complain  of  her,  and 
thereby  make  public  what  appeared  to  her 
quite  allowable  in  private — and  came  home 
late,  that  she  might  not  be  awake,  and  yet 
found  her  keeping  watch  with  the  Child,  who 
had  waited  for  her  Father  that  she  might  go  to 
bed  with  him — then  the  Mother  scolded  him 
and  called  him  a  Waster  of  Time  and  Money 
— a  Man  addicted  to  worldly  Pleasures,  while 
she  toiled  away  for  ever  in  secret  at  Home, 
and  had  never  a  single  happy  Hour  with  him. 

Thereupon  he  sat  down,  and  closed  his 
Eyes ;  but  Tears  may  have  secretly  gushed 
forth  from  under  his  Eyelids.  Then  the  Child 
sighed,  pressed  him  and  kissed  him,  but  said 
at  the  same  time  to  her  Mother  in  childish 
Anger :  Thou  wilt  one  day  bring  down  my 
Father  to  the  Grave  I  then  thou  wilt  repent 
it.     Everybody  says  so. 

The  Mother  wished  to  tear  her  from  his 
arms.  But  he  hindered  her,  wishing  to  pun- 
ish his  Child  himself.     These  were  the  first 


128 


A    LITTLE    AGNES. 


blows  he  had  ever  given  her.  The  Child 
stood  trembling  and  motionless. — Do  not 
beat  her  on  my  account !  certainly  not  on  my 
account!  exclaimed  Ag-nes^  thus  indirectly 
irritating  him  still  more.  The  Father  how- 
ever struck.  But  in  the  midst  of  the  Sadness 
and  at  the  same  time  of  the  Anger  which  his 
Sufferings  caused  bim,  he  observed  at  length 
for  the  first  time  that  his  little  Daughter  had 
turned  round  between  his  knees,  and  that  he 
had  struck  her  with  a  rough  hand  on  the 
stomach!  He  was  horror-struck;  he  stag- 
gered away,  threw  himself  upon  his  Bed  and 
wept — wept  quite  inconsolably.  But  the 
Child  came  after  him,  stood  for  a  long  time 
in  silence,  then  seized  his  hand,  and  besought 
him  thus:  My  Father,  do  not  be  angry!  I 
shall  so  soon  be  well  again.  My  Mother 
says  thou  hast  done  right.  Come,  let  me 
pray  and  go  to  bed.  I  have  only  waited  for 
thee.  Now^  the  little  Sand-man  comes  to 
close  my  Eyes.     Come,  take  me  to  thee ;  I 


A    LITTLE    AGNES.  129 

will  certainly  for  the  future  remain  silent,  as 
thou  dost !  Hearest  thou  ?  art  thou  asleep  ? 
dear  Father ! — 

This  danger  then  appeared  to  be  overpast. 

Almost  luckily,  might  the  guilty  Father's 
Heart  say,  the  little  Agnes  had  some  time 
afterwards  a  dangerous  Fall; — luckily! — in 
order  that  he  might  not  further  imagine  that 
he  was  the  cause  of  the  Child's  Death.  She 
continued  sick  from  that  day,  became  worse, 
and  no  Physician  could  devise  aught ;  even 
Wilibald,  who  had  studied  seven  years  at 
Padua  and  Bologna,  only  pressed  the  hand 
of  the  Father.     That  was  intelligible  enough. 

All  the  feelings  of  the  Mother  were  again 
roused.  The  little  Agnes's  Birthday  hap- 
pened on  the  Holy  Christmas  Eve.  Firmly 
resolved  to  have  the  little  golden  Hood  and 
the  white  Frock,  Albert^  unknown  to  the 
Mother,  had  got  them  made  in  the  City,  and 
paid  for.  The  Birthday  Present  shone  in  the 
twilight  in  the  midst  of  the  Christmas-tree, 


130 


A    LITTLE    AGNES. 


which  had  not  yet  been  lighted  up.  The 
Mother  saw  it.  She  stood  confounded  as  well 
as  deeply  mortified ;  and  a  Remorse  seized 
her,  which  broke  out  almost  into  a  Rage 
against  Albert.  He  wished  to  leave  the 
room ;  but  at  the  door  his  Knees  failed  him. 
Agaes  hastened  after  him,  seized  him,  sup- 
ported him  in  her  arms,  scolded  him  and 
wept  with  him,  while  he  sobbed  and  strug- 
gled in  vain  for  composure.  She  made  him 
He  down.  Then  she  lighted  up  the  Christ- 
mas-tree, and  the  Father  saw,  but  only  as  in 
a  Dream,  everything  prepared.  When  all 
was  ready  she  said  to  him :  Bring  thy  Child, 
and  he  did  so.  But  the  joy  of  the  Child  was 
extinguished ;  she  lifted  up  the  little  golden 
Hood  and  the  white  Frock — but  scarcely 
smiled,  and  hid  herself  on  her  Father.  The 
Angel  at  the  top  of  the  Christmas-tree  took 
fire ;  it  blazed  up.  And  the  Child  admired 
in  her  little  hand  the  Ashes  of  the  Angel  and 
the  remnant  of  Tinsel  from  the  wings. 


A    LITTLE    AGNES.  131 

During  the  Night  the  Child  suddenly  sat 
upright.  Her  Father  talked  with  her  ior  a 
long  time.  Then  she  appeared  to  fall  into  a 
slumber,  but  called  again  to  him  and  said  in 
a  low  voice :  Dear  Father !  Father,  do  not  be 
angry! 

Wherefore  should  I  be  angry,  my  Child  ? 

Ah !  thou  wilt  certainly  be  very  angry ! 

Tell  me,  I  pray  thee,  what  it  is ! 

But  promise  me  first ! 

Here,  thou  hast  my  Hand.  "Why,  then, 
am  I  not  to  be  angry  ? 

Ah!  Father,  because  I  am  dying!  But 
weep  not !  weep  not  too  much !  My  Mother 
says,  thou  needest  thine  Eyes.  I  would 
willingly— ah !  how  willingly — ^remain  with 
thee, — ^but  I  am  dying ! 

Dear  Child,  thou  must  not  die !  The  Suf- 
fering would  be  mine  alone  ! 

Then  weep  not  thus !  Thou  hast  already 
made  me  so  sorry ! — ah !  so  sorry !  Now  I 
can  no  longer  bear  it.     Therefore  weep  iiot! 


132  A    LITTLE    AGiXES. 

Knowest  thou  that  when  thou  used  to  sit 
and  paint  and  look  so  devout,  then  the  beau- 
tiful Disciple  whom  thou  didst  paint  for 
me,  stood  always  at  thy  side;  I  saw  him 
plainly! 

Now  I  promise  thee,  I  will  not  weep !  said 
Albert.^  thou  good  little  soul !  Go  hence  and 
bespeak  a  Habitation  for  me  in  our  Fathers 
House ;  for  thee  and  for  me ! 

Albert  now  tried  to  smile,  and  to  appear 
composed  again.  Then  Agones  exclaimed: 
Behold !  there  stands  the  Apostle  again !  He 
beckons  me! — shall  I  go  away  from  thee? — 
Oh  Father! 

With  strange  curiosity  Albert  looked  shud- 
dering around.  Of  course  there  was  nothing 
to  be  seen.  But  whilst  he  looked  with  tear- 
ful Eyes  into  the  dusky  room,  only  for  the 
purpose  of  averting  his  looks — the  lovely 
Child  had  slumbered  away. 

The  Father  laid  all  the  Child's  little  Play- 
things into  the  Coffin  with  her — that  he  and 


A    LITTLE    AGNES.  133 

her  Mother  might  never  more  be  reminded 
of  her  by  them — thie  little  Gods,  the  Angels, 
the  little  Lamb,  the  little  Coat  for  the  Snow- 
king,  and  the  little  golden  Pots  and  Plates. 
Over  the  whole.  Moss  and  Rose-leaves. 
Thereon  was  she  now  bedded.  Thus  she 
lay,  her  Countenance  white  and  pure,  for  the 
mark,  the  purple  Cross,  had  disappeared 
with  the  Blood  from  her  Cheeks.  And  now 
for  the  first  time  she  had  on  the  white  Frock, 
and  the  golden  Hood  encircled  her  little 
Head,  but  not  so  close  as  to  prevent  a  Lock 
of  her  Hair  escaping  from  beneath. 

Her  Father  then  sat  down  in  front  of  her, 
and  painted  his  Child  in  her  Coffin.  But 
the  sight  overpowered  him;  he  could  not 
bear  it  for  wretchedness.  The  Evening  Twi- 
light was  come ;  he  laid  himself  on  his 
Couch,  and  felt  the  Pangs  and  dreamed  the 
Thoughts  expressed  in  the  Distich  which 
Wilihald  sent  to  him : 


134  A    LITTLE    AGNES. 

Harsh  Death !  why  hast  thou  from  me  ta'en  the  lovely 

Child  ?— I  had 
In  it  an  Angel — thou  a  little  Coffin  with  its  Dust! 

*  *  # 

See  there  the  Playthings  idle  stand;  on  them  allur- 
ingly 
The  early  Sun  shines  down,  and  I  as  one  transfixed 

stand  by. 

*  *  * 

Whether  it  lived?  or  whether  died?   the  Child  now 

knows  it  not ! 
I  know  it  well,  and  with  the  Child  into  the  Grave  am 

sinking. 

*  *  iff 

Weep  and  lament!  and  yet  into  the  Earth  they  bear 

thy  Child ; 
Weep  and  lament!   and  yet  to  thee  it  ne'er  returns 

again. 

*  *  « 

A  thousand  Mothers  have  been  thus  bereft !  shall  that 

me  comfort  ? 
Ah !  now  I  only  mourn  the  more !    I  also  mourn  for 

them. 

*  #  * 

A  Father's  Heart  is  broken.    Death !  thou  hast  had  thy 

Triumph. 
Henceforth  in  Heaven  I  put  my  trust ;  but  in  the  Earth 

no  more. 

*  *  * 


A   LITTLE    AGNE8.  135 

If  Sorrow  to  the  Child  thou  thoughtst  to  bring,  oh 

Death !  thou  art  deceived ; 
For  yesterday  it  living  laughed ;  to-day,  tho'  dead,  it 

smiles. 

*  «  * 

This  is— Consolation !  and  for  the  Child  thy  bitt'rest 

Pain 
Is  at  an  end.    Thine  own  is— Love  !  so  bear  it  now,  as 

once 
It  did  enrapture  thee !  and  if  thou  know'st  the  Life  of 

Love, 
Then  wilt  thou  henceforth  Love  the  Dead,  and  live  for 

her  that  sleeps. 


Agnes  now  entered  timidly,  with  a  light  in 
her  hand ;  she  gazed  around  her,  advanced, 
and  looked  if  Albert  was  asleep  ?  Having 
concluded  that  he  was  so,  she  went  in  front 
of  the  Child,  beheld  with  a  pallid  Counte- 
nance the  pure  Cheek,  and  bending  down, 
the  poor  soul  continued  weeping  for  a  long 
time  over  the  Child,  trying  at  the  same  time 
to  encircle  her  with  her  arms.  She  held  the 
light  to  the  little  golden  Hood,  took  it  off,  cut 


136  A    LITTLE    AGNES. 

off  some  of  the  beautiful  soft  Hair,  concealed 
it  in  her  Bosom,  placed  the  little  Hood  again 
on  the  Head  over  which  she  had  just  been 
weeping,  sprinkled  the  little  Angel  with  Holy 
Water,  knelt  at  her  feet  and  prayed — ^then 
stole  away  silently  as  she  had  come,  and  dis- 
appeared like  a  Spirit. 

What  must  have  been  his  Thoughts ! 


HOW  ALBERT  BIDS   FAREWELL  TO    HIS 
WIFE. 

Albert's  greatest,  yea,  almost  his  only 
Joy  in  Life  was  now  gone,  and,  as  he  well 
knew,  irrecoverably  gone.  Agnes  might  well 
imagine  what  must  now  have  been  his  feel- 
ings. She  had  already,  in  times  past,  pro- 
phesied evil  days,  if  his  Child  should  die. 
But  it  was  not  so :  he  was  silent ;  the  Mother 
was  silent ;  the  Child  was  never  more  named 
between  them ;  the  Remembrance  of  her  died 
away  by  degrees  from  among  Men,  of  whom 
she  had  scarcely  seen  any.  His  Marriage 
remained  Childless ;  and  thus  every  one,  es- 
pecially in  after  years,  believed  that  a  Child 
had  never  blessed  him ;  and  those  who  piqued 
themselves  on  their  knowledge  of  Mankind 
accounted  for  AgTtes^s  deep  Dejection  solely 


138  HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 

and  confidently  from  the  circumstance  of  her 
being  Childless.  And  a  Motherless  Child  is 
only  half  as  unblest  as  a  Childless  Wife, 
who,  shut  out  from  her  natural  sphere,  and 
scarcely  to  be  amused  by  Vanities,  sees  her 
fairest  Hopes  cut  off.  She  pines  away  and 
bends  towards  the  ground  like  a  half-cut 
Vine-branch,  and  never  stands  joyfully  erect, 
nor  looks  cheerfully,  loaded  by  her  own 
Abundance,  on  the  ripening  Grapes  of  the 
neighbour-stocks.  And  this  Sorrow  is  the 
more  stinging  because  the  subject  is  always 
both  kindly  and  painfully  evaded  by  others  ; 
it  must  therefore  be  suppressed  and  endured 
in  silence,  and  yet  can  never  be  forgotten. 
And  thus  this  supposed  Sorrow  passed  cur- 
rent as  an — excuse  for  Ag-nes^  and  Albert 
confirmed  the  convenient  belief  from  Love  to 
her,  and  Respect  for  himself — at  least  he  did 
80  by  Silence  on  the  subject  of  his  little 
Daughter. 

Some  Lines  which  he  found  in  his  coat  on 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  139 

returning  home  from  the  Churchyard,  con- 
tributed the  most  to  his  further  satisfaction. 
They  thus  addressed  him : 

A  Way  I  know,  by  which  thou  on  thyself 

Revenge  canst  take  for  all  the  Ills  that  others 

To  thee  do.    Angry  must  thou  be !     Grievous 

To  thee  is  this  Life  1    Offers  it  only 

Misery,  and  Sickness,  and  dire  Poverty, 

And  num'rous  Hardships  1  Then  thou  must  murmur ! 

Or  fleeting  is  this  World,  and  full  of  Death  ? 

Then  thou  must  grieve !     Thyself  thou  punish'st  thus, 

For  others'  Faults. But  if  thou'rt  truly  Wise, 

With  Patience  thou'lt  endure  whatever 

Is  and  must  be ;  and  in  thy  pious  Soul 

Thyself  thou  wilt  rejoice — that  pious  Soul 

Which  all  surmounts,  and  thee  of  nought  doth  rob. 

And  if  the  Fate  of  those  by  thee  beloved 

Doth  cause  thee  Grief,  then  think :  they  suffer  nought. 

As  thou,  if  truly  Pious.    Wcep'st  thou  still  ? — 

Then  think  :  that  Love  thy  fancied  Son'ow  is  ! 

And  be  thou  blest,  as  Love  makes  all  who  feel  it ! 

And  now  Albert  drew  a  Picture  of  him- 
self in  his  seven-and-twentieth  year,  prompt- 


140 


HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 


ed  by  the  following  motive.*  He  saw,  name- 
ly, how  much  his  Countenance  and  his  whole 
Form  had  changed  in  a  few  years,  and  he 
wished  to  keep — to  preserve  the  Remem- 
brance of  himself,  at  least  in  a  Picture — in 
case  he  should  soon  look  paler  and  more 
wretched.  He  disclaimed  the  idea  of  making 
any  one  happy  by  it,  or  that  he  could  make 
himself  so  by  means  of  a  warmly-reflected 
Image  of  Happiness.  To  an  upright  man, 
indeed,  Happiness  is  not  necessary.  God 
knows  well  upon  whom  he  can  lay  the  Evil 
which  is  as  it  were  unavoidable  in  His 
[World,  so  that  it  weighs  little  or  nothing  on 
those  who  must  bear  it — on  the  Patient  and 
the  Pure  in  Heart.  Therefore  Albert  thank- 
ed God  even  for  this,  which  he  reflected  on 
gladly,  that  of  all  the  Houses  in  the  World, 
his  was  the  best  into  w^hich  his  Agnes  could 

♦  Master  Albert  sent  this  Picture  of  himself  to  Florence^ 
to  Andrea  del  Sarto.    It  founded  his  Fame  in  Italjf. 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  141 

have  come,  where  she  was  as  happy  as  it 
was  possible  for  her  to  be,  untroubled  and 
uninjured. 

He  now  threw  himself  entirely  into  the 
arms  of  his  Art.  Not  as  to  a  Refuge^but 
that  he  might  be  independent  and  free  from 
the  World,  as  he  had  always  formerly  wished, 
and  yet  hoped  not  so  to  be.  This,  however, 
when  attained,  was  quite  indifferent  to  him ! 
He  now  began  his  "  Little  Passion,"  his  fa- 
vourite Work,  in  whose  Features  he  as  it 
were  deposited  all  his  Feelings,  or  depicted 
these  under  their  quiet  Sunshine,  their  full 
Glow  and  Power. 

But  the  Death  of  his  Father  drew  him 
again.  Heart  and  Thoughts,  into  the  rough 
World.  The  God-fearing  Man  had  spent 
all  the  hard-earned  Gainings  of  his  Hand,  in 
bringing  up  his  Children  under  such  whole- 
some training  and  discipline  as  would  ren- 
der them  acceptable  to  God  and  Man.  He 
was  patient,  meek,  peaceable  towards  every 


142  HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 

Man ;  and  in  the  midst  of  perpetual  honest 
Struggles,  diverse  Afflictions,  Attacks,  and 
Reverses,  he  had  never  been  able  to  enjoy- 
much  Society  or  worldly  Comfort.  His  Son 
Albert  had  no  wish  for  what  his  Father  had 
never  been  able  to  attain,  and  thus  retired  and 
peaceable  like  him,  he  yet  excelled  him  in 
Contentment. 

Albert'' s  Mother  Barbara  was  now  old  and 
poor.  It  was  needful,  not  that  her  Son 
should  repay  her,  for  that  was  impossible — 
but  that  he  should  show  his  Love  to  her  by 
fostering  her  and  providing  for  her  comfort 
in  her  old  Age,  as  she  had  fostered  him  and 
provided  for  his  comfort  in  his  Youth.  His 
Father  had  been  made  happy  by  her — had 
been  so  indeed  chiefly  through  her.  She  had 
always  only  modestly  asked  for  what  she 
toished;  and  what  he  discreetly  signified  to 
be  his  Wish,  that  she  had  always  done.  But 
for  two  whole  years  Agnes  prevented  her 
Husband  from  taking  his  Mother  home  to  his 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  143 

house,  Albert  was  indignant  at  this;  and 
Agnes^  in  her  turn — as  if  his  Mother  under- 
stood Housekeeping  better,  and  were  now  to 
guide  her — was  angry  at  his  displeasure. 
He  held,  however,  inwardly  and  unalterably 
firm  to  what  was  right.  He  had  also  taken 
his  Brother  Johannes  into  his  house,  to  in- 
struct him  in  his  Art,  but  was  obliged,  to 
make  up  for  this,  to  send  away  Andreas^* 
whom  he  assisted  secretly  that  he  might  tra- 
vel and  improve  himself  in  his  Art. 

When  Albert  now  went  out,  his  Friends 
pressed  his  hand  more  warmly.  They 
praised  his  Paintings,  his  Woodcuts,  his  Re- 
lievos, and  his  other  pieces  of  Sculpture,  be- 
yond all  bounds.      For   an   honest  Master 

*  This  brother  Andreas  was  his  sole  heir,  inheriting 
house,  business,  and  all  his  works  of  art.  Of  these,  how- 
ever, he  took  so  little  care,  that  the  plates  were  abstracted 
in  great  numbers ;  and  it  was  at  this  time  that  so  many  bad 
impressions  were  taken  from  the  original  plates.  Andreas 
was  married,  but  died  also  without  children. — Translator. 


144  HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 

\  certainly  knows  first  and  best  which  of  his 
Works  is  good,  and  how  accomplished.  And 
^no  one  knows  so  well  as  he,  what  he  intend- 
ed to  produce.  Therefore  he  knows  also 
what  he  has  performed,  and  what  he  has  left 
i  behind,  God  knows  where.  He  marked 
well  also  the  Motive  of  their  Praise — and  he 
bore  it.  The  whole  City  knew  also!  but 
Agnes  imagined  not  that  they  knew,  until 
one  day  a  Marforio  Verse,  in  the  form  of  a 
short  Conversation,  was  sent  to  her,  she  knew 
not  how.     It  was  entitled  : 

"  THE  MASTER  IN  THE  HOUSE." 

WIFE. 

Under  the  Table  to  retire  you  dare. 

HUSBAND. 

Here  safer  am  I  sure  than  any  where ! 

WIFE. 

Come  forth  directly. 

nCSBAXD. 

That  will  I  not  do ! 

WIFE. 

Shall  I  bend  down,  and  so  take  hold  of  you  1 
How  very  bold  now  all  at  once  you  are ! 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  145 

HUSBAND. 

My  dear !  one  grows  at  length  an  Iron  Bar ; 
Here,  'neath  the  table,  will  I  show  you.  Spouse, 
That  I  alone  am  Master  in  the  House ! 

These  exaggerated  words  struck  home. 
It  is  all  over  between  us,  said  she,  softly  and 
almost  weeping.  Her  words  moved  him 
even  to  Tears,  and  he  could  not  throw  off 
the  impression  they  made  on  his  mind.  She^ 
however,  soon  got  out  of  humour  again,  and 
the  more  regardlessly  so,  since  her  Conduct 
in  Life  was  now  so  well  known  that  she 
could  no  longer  conceal  it  even  from  herself 
by  a  Veil  of  Mystery.  Thus  Evil  as  well  as 
Good  is  augmented  by  Publicity. 

An  unamiable  Wife  does  infinite  harm, 
when  by  her  conduct  she  makes  all  other 
Women  distasteful  to  her  husband.  For 
the  Wife  is  the  Husband's  Glass,  through 
which  he  contemplates  the  World  ;  she  is  the 
Tuning-hammer  of  his  Soul.  But  she  does 
him   still   greater    harm    when    she   makes 

10 


146  HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 

Others  dear  to  him ;  that  is  to  say,  when  we 
learn  to  feel  and  observe  as  it  were  to  the 
Glory  of  God,  that  He  has  made  a  fair  and 
excellent  Work  when  he  created  Eve  out  of 
a  rib  of  her  Husband,  and  now  freely  repeats 
the  Work,  as  countlessly  as  the  Sand  of  the 
Sea.  For  Alhert''s  Love  w^as  now  to  sustain 
a  hard  trial. 

Pirkheimer's  Spouse,  Crescenzia^  had  been 
taken  away  from  him.  Alas  I  poor  Man! 
— for  he  had  become  jooor,  rich  as  he  was. 
He  desired  to  have  a  Picture  of  her  thus: 
himself  weeping  at  the  foot  of  her  Bed,  and 
kneeling  as  he  then  knelt;  Crescenzia^  re- 
ceiving extreme  Unction,  and  holding  the 
Wax  Taper  and  the  Crucifix.  At  the  bed 
was  to  be  standing  also  his  Sister,  the  Nun 
of  Santa  Clara. 

Her  Picture — the  Child  had  also  been 
allowed  to  spoil.  It  thus  cost  a  walk  to  the 
Convent 

Clara  was  sitting  in  the  Parlour.     She 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  147 

was  unveiled,  patiently  awaiting  him,  and 
greeted  him  softly  with  a  smile,  and  a  deli- 
cate Blush — for  Virgin  Modesty  ivhy  she 
was  there — was  only  perceptible  because  she 
looked  so  very  pale.  When  she  saw  how- 
ever how — Years  had  gnawed  on  him — and 
a  Woman  sees  at  a  glance,  as  the  Gardener 
sees  by  the  Fruit  how  the  tree  is  flourishing, 
the  Fruit  of  his  past  Life,  yea  the  Soul  of 
Man  in  his  Countenance — then  her  features 
assumed  the  sadness  which  he  needed  for  the 
Scene !  A  difficult  Picture  !  But  his  Soul 
held  the  Colours.  He  thought  not:  If  this 
sweet  form,  this  gentle  Clara  were  thy  Ag- 
nes ! — Ah  no  I  he  scarcely  thought.  If  thy  Ag- 
nes were  like  her!  For  his  Father's  Will 
was  sacred  to  him,  and  sacred — her  he  loved ; 
for  it  was  because  he  loved,  that  he  now  suf- 
fered !  and  because  she  loould  not  love  him 
that  she  suffered ! 

He  finished  the  Tablet,  which  was  destined 
for  the  Church  of  St.  Sebaldus,  in  his  own 


148  HOAV    ALBERT    BIDS 

house,  and  wrote  thereon  the  Latin  Inscrip- 
tion in  gilt  letters.  Agnes  stood  and  looked 
at  it,  and  made  out  the  beginning :  Mulieri 
incomparahili — then  asked  what  all  the  rest 
of  the  words  meant  ?  Albert  wished  to  be 
silent ;  but,  after  having  composed  himself, 
he  said  to  her,  They  are — "  To  the  incom- 
parable Woman  and  Wife,  my  Clara  Ore- 
scenzia,  I,  Wilibald  Pirkheimer^  her  Hus- 
band, whom  she  never  disturbed*  but  by  her 
Death,  erect  this  Monument. 

Agnes  was  angry,  as  if  he  had  said  these 
words  to  her  from  his  own  Heart !  and  Clara 
the  pale  Nun,  who  in  the  Picture  was  look- 
ing away  from  Crescenzia  for  sorrow,  now 
seemed  to  look  at  her!  But  no  Tear  fell 
from  her  Eye.     Albert  alone  wept. 

He  prepared  himself  now  for  his  Journey. 
And  as  he  parted  from  his  Mother,  she  gave 
him  her  hand,  held  it  for  a  time,  and  only 

*  Turhavit — ^grieved.—  TF.  P. 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  149 

gently  said :  Rely  meanwhile  on  thy  Wife ! 
I  dare  not  allow  it  to  be  remarked  how  much 
I  love  thee,  else  she  will  become  my  Enemy. 
Whoever  does  not  consider  her  in  the  right,  be- 
comes suspicious  to  her.  And  yet  she  is  ex- 
cellent, as  excellent  as  her  Sister,  who  is  firm 
in  Honour ;  and  both  are  certainly  God-fear- 
ing Women !  But  yet  it  is  evident,  and  I 
must  myself  confess  it,  Fidelity  is  only  one 
Virtue  in  a  Woman,  and  perhaps,  for  as  sa- 
cred and  essential  as  it  is — yet  not  the  best. 
For  the  peace  of  her  Husband  she  must  pos- 
sess many  others  besides.  It  were  certainly 
better,  as  Pirkheimer  said  *  Yet  be- 
lieve me,  she  reserves  her  Love  for  thee 
alone,  perhaps  till  she — or  till  thou • 


=*  What  he  said,  will  be  found  in  the  Life  o^  Albert  Durer 
by  Roth,  published  at  Leipzig  by  Dyk,  in  1791,  page  21. — 
But  I  do  not  wish  to  say  anything  injurious ! — I,  The  Edi- 
tor. 

This,  or  at  least  the  substance  of  it,  has  been  given  in  the 
Preface. — Translator, 


150  HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 

She  broke  off. 

Albert  remained  more  than  a  year  in  Ven- 
ice. And  here,  placed  again  in  the  living 
wrestling  World,  full  of  young  Minds  who 
were  opening  up  new  Paths,  he  perceived 
how  salutary  it  is  for  an  Artist  to  tear  him- 
self away  from  his  circumscribed  path  in  the 
midst  of  his  days,  that  he  may  once  more 
have  a  free  view  of  his  fellow-creatures  in 
the  World  around  him.  He  becomes  young 
again.  His  Life  has  two  Springs.  He  re- 
ceives new  impressions,  and  by  means  of 
already  cultivated  Art,  executes  what  he  has 
newly  conceived  with  Mind  and  Vigour. 
He  thus  once  more,  as  it  were,  branches  out, 
and  new  Tendrils  shoot  forth — and  only  on 
young  yearly  Shoots  do  Grapes  grow ! 
Should  he  neglect  this,  then  he  becomes  by 
degrees  stiff,  and  as  it  were  petrified,  even  in 
those  which  are  considered  his  best  Compo- 
sitions. 

Alter fs  Works  had  reached  even  to  that 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  151 


City ;  and  it  appeared  strange  to  the  Italians 
that  everything  good  and  beautiful  was  no 
longer  to  come  from  Rome  and  Byzantium^ 
and  wander  towards  the  cold  North,  without 
remuneration  in  the   way  of  Money;  nay, 
that  Time  had  now  begun  to  reverse  the 
order  of  things,  and  that  Light  and  Power, 
and  Reason  and  Art,  should  now  come  to- 
wards the  South  from  the  Barbarians  to  the 
sinking  Nations !     And  what  he  had  devised  1 1 
amidst  Sufferings  and  Sorrow,  lying  on  his 
couch  in  Silence  and  in  Darkness,  and  after- 
wards accomplished  in  his  lonely  little  Cham- 
ber, as  if  for  no  one  but  himself,  now  shone  ; 
in  the  Sunshine  of  the  Distance,  and  gave  \ 
Delight  to  Men.     Thus  he  looked  upon  his , 
own  Works  with  Thankfulness,  and  stood ( 
before  them  with   folded  hands.     The   old 
Masters  looked  at  him  sullenly  ;  those  of  his  \ 
own  age  blushed;  the  younger  were  full  of' 
bashful  Ardour.     That  was  a  sufficient  re- 
ward for  him  for  all — besides  !     It  imparted 


152 


HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 


4 


to  him  the  satisfaction  which  the  Artist,  al- 
most burying  himself,  labours  Day  and  Night 
to  attain.  For  the  Mind  of  Man  is  wonder- 
fully and  almost  laughably  formed ;  and  it 
is  also  modestly  limited  in  its  Desires.  For 
all  his  lifelong  Difficulties  and  Vexations,  he 
desires  only  RecogniUon,  not  so  much  as 
Praise.  Even  the  Hound  runs  itself  to  Death 
after  the  Hare,  if  his  Master  only  says  to  him, 
thou  art  a  brave  Apollo,  The  Soldier  who 
is  accounted  brave  goes  like  a  Demigod  into 
the  tumult  of  the  Fight,  and  perishes  therein, 
as  if  a  Man  could  and  should  be  nothing  else 
than  a  slaughterer  of  his  Fellow-men.  The 
Wife  who  toils  during  her  whole  Life  with 
House  and  Field  E^nd  Children,  goes  fresh 
under  the  Yoke  again  on  Monday  if  she  has 
sat  for  an  Hour  well  dressed  on  Sunday  af- 
ternoon, and  traces  nothing  more  of  the 
World  than  God's  Sunshine  and  her  own 
weary  Hands,  if  her  Husband  only  says  to 
her.  Truly  thou  art  a  diligent  Wife,  and  dost 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  153 

thy  duty.  So  is  it  also  with  the  Artist.  These 
words,  "  Thou  hast  painted  a  good  Picture," 
satisfies  his  Heart — for  he  has  honestly  done 
that  which  the  Lord  has  given  him  ability  to 
do.  And  therefore  is  the  small  satisfaction 
not  contemptible ;  for  the  Work  which  the 
Lord  has  dealt  out  to  the  Human  Race  is 
performed  everywhere  with  fidelity,  but  in 
truth  through  Recognition  alone — and  with-  j 
out  E-eward,  for  it  yields  only  clear  Conscious'-  \ 
ness.  And  that  is  enough  for  such  a  noble 
creature  as  Man.  He  labours  in  his  Fathers 
Vineyard,  and  is  his  Child. 

But  other  Honours  also  awaited  him  in 
Italj/.  The  Master  Bellino  wished  to  have 
the  very  Pencil  from  him  with  which  he 
painted  Hair  so  very  minutely,  and  yet  many 
at  a  time.  Marcantanio  Raimondi  made 
Counterfeits  of  his  Plates.  Andrea  Mantegna 
wished  to  see  him,  and  wrote  to  him  with  a 
trembling  hand,  while  sick  unto  death.  He 
went  to  Padua,  and  found  the  incomparable 


154  HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 

Master — dead.  The  longing  had  kept  him 
in  Life  till  within  a  few  minutes  before :  his 
Eyes  were  not  yet  closed.  In  Bologna  they 
were  content  to  die,  now  that  they  had  seen 
him  Face  to  Face ; — so  enraptured  were  they 
with  his  Works.  The  almost  youthful  Eaph- 
ael  Sanzio  took  Albert^ s  simple  Landscapes 
as  Backgrounds  and  Corners  for  his  Pictures. 
But  false  reports  were  also  spread  among  the 
people,  in  which  Lies  had  all  ihe  influence 
and  effect  of  Truth.  Buonarotti  was  said  to 
have  torn  Albert^s  Drawings,  and  burnt  his 
Paintings :  no  Painter  does  that.  But  it  was 
to  him  a  signal  proof,  as  well  of  the  Incapa- 
city of  the  World  to  judge,  going  on  as  it 
does  eternally  echoing  what  gifted  Spirits 
have  suggested  ; — and  that  is  a  sad  thing  for 
the  genuine  Masters  and  for  the  value  of  their 
Art! — and  it  was  partly  to  him  a  proof  of 
this,  that  all  things  become  living  Legends, 
Diligence  and  SkiU,  as  well  as  Life  and  Ac- 
tion— and  that  it  may  be  considered  a  valua- 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  155 

ble  piece  of  good  fortune  when  an  Artist 
pleases  the  People,  for  he  has  after  his  own 
manner  responded  to  the  contemporaneous 
tendency  and  manner  of  thinking,  and  exhib- 
ited to  Mankind  what  they  were  anticipating 
and  striving  after.  When  these  claims  are 
extinguished  with  the  revolving  Generations, 
then  he  becomes  nothing  but  a  mere  Legend. 

Our  dear  Master  stood  much  in  need  of 
this  renewed  vigour  of  Heart  and  Mind,  when 
he  returned  home  to  his  Wife.  He  gave  her 
an  account  of  his  Expenses. 

While  he  stood  on  sure  ground,  and  ex- 
cited also  by  the  cheerfulness  of  the  Italians, 
he  had,  to  please  her,  learned  to  dance.  But 
so  irksome  did  he  find  it,  that  he  had  only 
taken  two  Lessons :  this  cost  one  Ducat. 

It  was  indeed  impossible  for  him  to  trans- 
port himself  suddenly  into  the  midst  of  dis- 
turbing and  intoxicating  worldly  things,  from 
the  faithful,  devoted,  often  pious  Thoughts 
which,  induced  by  his  Art,  continually  occu- 


156  HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 

pied  his  Mind  :  and  from  the  longing  retired 
Feelings  which  his  high  Conceptions  always 
.produced  in  him;  and  although  it  did  not 
I  hurt,  but  rather  on  the  contrary  furthered  him, 
to  see  and  to  hear  all  the  Merriment  of  the 
People,  yet  he  could  not  think  of  carrying  it 
sa  far  as  to  make  a  moving  Doll  of  his  own 
Body.     For  that  his  feet  always  failed  him. 

The  Painters  had  sued  him  three  times, 
because,  without  belonging  to  any  of  their 
Schools,  he  had  painted  in  Venice.  That 
cost  four  Florins. 

The  ride  to  Bologna,  to  improve  himself 
in  the  mysterious  Art  of  Perspectiva,  cost 
money — and  this  Art  could  not  be  exhibited 
to  Agnes* 

He  had  intended  to  bring  her  a  piece  of 
oriental  woollen  Cloth  ;  but  the  house  in 
which  he  was  took  fire;  the  oriental  Cloth 
was  burnt.  It  cost,  notwithstanding,  eight 
Ducats. 

He  had  lent  eight  Ducats  to  a  poor  Paint- 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  157 

er,  who  was  going  to  Rome  for  the  purpose 
of  secretly  disinterring  again  the  old  Pictures 
which  Raphael  had  left  choked  up  in  the 
Baths.*  But  the  man  died  at  Rome  in  his 
debt. 

A  year  before  the  period  of  this  Journey, 
Raphael  had  sent  his  Picture  to  Albert, 
painted  elaborately  by  himself;  and  now 
Albert  sent  his  in  water  colours,  also  elabo- 
rately painted,  to  Raphael^  whose  Picture  of 

*  At  the  time  that  Eaffaello  was  charged  by  Pope  Leo  X. 
with  the  decoration  of  the  Loggie  of  the  Vatican,  the  inte- 
rior of  the  Baths  of  Titus  had  just  been  discovered.  The 
paintings  were  in  all  their  original  freshness  and  splendour, 
of  a  brilliancy  of  which  the  external  air  and  various  acci- 
dents have  since  deprived  them;  thus  owing  their  entire 
preservation  to  the  very  cause  which  had  created  their  ob- 
livion. According  to  one  tradition,  Eaffaellt)  copied,  and 
afterwards  destroyed,  some  portions  of  the  arabesque  orna- 
ments, in  order  to  claim  the  invention  of  them  ;  but  this  al- 
legation has  been  fully  contradicted,  as  he  has  merely  adopt- 
ed their  spirit  and  taste,  but  without  borrowing  from  them 
a  single  idea  of  any  importance.  See  the  "  Life  and  Works 
of  KafFaello,"  by  Quatremere  de  Quincy. — Translator. 


158 


HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 


the  Entombment  of  Christ  had  become  the 
foundation  of  his  fair  Fame.* 

Now,  because  Albert  had  brought  nothing 
Home,  and  had  only  mere  projects  to  offer, 
Agnes  sold  the  Raphael  painted  by  Raphael^ 
for  a  paltry  Sum  of  Money.  That  was  bit- 
terer to  him  than  if  Raphael  had  sold  him. 
For  we  have  an  understanding  from  afar 
with  him  whose  Picture  we  possess ;  the 
Soul  sees  no  Giant  in  a  misty  form  ready  to 
overthrow  us  with  invisible  Weapons.  No, 
he  looks  at  us  as  lovingly,  as  quietly,  and  as 
attentively — as  we  look  at  him  ;  he  is  a  Man, 
and  thus  we  also  feel  humanly.  But — Al- 
bert had  sent  his  Picture  with  this  desire  also, 
that  he  might  be  judged  of  by  a  Master  in 
his  own  Department — that  he  might  let  him 
see  himself.  For  the  Masters  are  the  true 
Lights,  who  can  best  elucidate  and  judge  of 


*  This  picture  is  now  the  chief  ornament  of  the  Borghese 
gallery  at  'Romt.— Translator. 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  159 

Compositions  in  their  own  Art.  Thus  only- 
can  a  Work  be  understood  and  known — then 
it  is,  indeed,  that  the  Master  understands  his 
own  Work  !  To  be  judged  of  by  the  World 
in  general,  neither  improves  nor  refreshes 
him. 

But  all  these  Evils  were  atoned  for,  by  a 
great  Sura  of  Money,  nearly  Eleven  hundred 
Rhenish  Florins,  that  Albert  received  from 
the  Emperor,  Rodolph  11.,  for  a  Picture  of 
the  Martyrdom  of  St.  Bartholometo,  which 
he  had  painted  in  Venice,  and  which,  well 
packed  in  bales,  two  strong  Men  on  foot  had 
carried  on  Poles  from  Venice  to  Prague. 

Then  there  was  Joy  in  the  House !  Mis- 
tress Agnes  prepared  some  strong  foaming 
Chocolate,  which  new  beverage  she  had 
heard  much  vaunted,  and  with  long  sup- 
pressed desire  to  partake  of.  During  the 
sipping  of  the  same,  she  now  in  her  usual 
way  spoke  of  everything  which  she  would 
procure,  as  pleasantly  as  the  Drink  fell  plea- 


160  HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 

santly  on  her  Tongue.  The  things  she  now 
saw  so  sweetly  in  her  Mind's  Eye,  she  after- 
w^ards  provided  herself  with  ;  good  household 
Furniture,  pretty  Dresses,  Trunks,  Drawers, 
Pewter  vessels,  all  the  requisites  for  Needle- 
work. Now  there  was  abundance  going  on 
— cutting,  sewing,  trimming,  and  putting  in 
order  I  At  last  Master  Albert  laid  down  the 
Receipt  before  her,  showing  that  he  had  paid 
the  whole  of  his  Debts  in  Venice.  She  tore 
the  paper  for  Joy.  When  the  bright  Sun 
shone  into  the  Room  and  the  polished  Tin 
glistened,  then  Agnes  sat  down  pleasantly 
and  played  again  on  the  Harp.  She  smiled 
quite  benignantly  Night  and  Morning  from 
beneath  the  new  Bedclothes.  She  even  al- 
lowed herself  to  be  drawn  by  her  Husband 
in  a  Picture  which  represented  Adam  and 
Eve^  and  the  beautiful  Agnes  was  the  beau- 
tiful Eve.  Albert  had  for  a  long  time  wished 
to  draw  the  innocent  Pair,  but  had  never 
ventured,  for  want  of  an  Eve.     Now  he  sue- 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  161 

ceeded  in  the  Picture,  and  a  Stone  was  re- 
moved from  his  Heart.  He  also  struck  a 
Medal  of  her.  In  it  she  is  represented  with 
her  Innocent  lovely  Countenance  looking 
upwards.  She  was  delighted  with  the  De- 
sign, and  the  Master  was  pleased  that  she 
was  pleased.  Yet  she  willingly  took  Twelve 
hundred  Rhenish  Florins  for  the  picture  of 
Adam  and  Eve,  and  it  was  hung  up  in  the 
splendid  Hall  in  the  Fortress.*  The  House 
was  paid  ;  and  then  Agnes  looked  out  at  the 
Window  with  him  one  Sunday  as  the  peo- 
ple were  coming  from  Church.  Her  Locks 
hung  beautifully  down  her  soft  Cheeks,  and 
the  Master  looked  through  between  them 
and  watched  with  delight  her  roguish  Eye. 
She  was  quite  beautiful,  and  he  came  to  the 

*  This  picture  is  still  to  be  seen  in  the  palace  of  Prague. 
The  fortress  or  imperial  castle  of  NUrnberg  is  a  building  of 
great  antiquity,  where  the  Emperors  resided  during  the 
middle  ages.  The  I^ng  of  Bavaria  now  uses  it  when  in 
the  city. —  Translator. 
11 


162  HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 

conclusion  that  he  would  marry  her  again,  if 
she  had  not  already  been  his  Wife. 

All  at  once  there  was  a  hollow  Sound  of 
heavy  Footsteps !  They  were  carrying  a 
little  Girl  in  an  open  Coffin,  adorned  with 
garlands  of  Flowers,  out  at  the  Gate.  The 
Parents  came  weeping  behind.  Agnes 
changed  color.  Albert  went  from  the  Win- 
dow. 

Alas!  that  the  Remembrance  of  the  old 
Days  should  spoil  the  new!  that  Grief  is 
born  with  the  Death  of  those  dear  to  us! 
He  who  has  known  a  deep  and  bitter  Grief, 
need  no  longer  strive  after  Happiness,  but 
only  after  Peace,  after  inward  Composure 
and  Forgetfulness ;  else  he  heaps  up  to  him- 
self Sorrow  on  Sorrow ;  and  even  if  he 
should  attain  to  what  seems  the  Crown  of 
Happiness,  yet  the  Jewel  is  wanting  thereto, 
the  ornamental  Stone — in  the  Cross  !  There- 
fore life-long  Meekness  must  be  the  Por- 
tion of  him  whose  Heart  is  broken !   also 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  163 

reverential  Resignation  to  Him  who  has  or- 
dained it  for  him.  In  Piety  alone  is  con- 
stant satisfaction  to  be  found.  And  it  is  God 
who  has  given  him  this  also,  and  with  it  all 
things. 

Physicians  call  a  recurrence  of  the  same 
Malady  to  one  scarcely  recovered,  a  Relapse ; 
which  is  always  more  dangerous,  and  for  a 
longer  time  prostrating,  than  the  Sickness 
which  attacks  healthy  Persons ;  for  the  Pa- 
tient is  now  more  irritable. — Albert  was 
moved;  and  he  began  to  pity  Agnes  also. 
Yet — even  old  Wounds  that  have  been  torn 
open,  close  again!  But  even  now,  in  her 
more  prosperous  condition,  Agnes  was  not 
happy,  because  her  Parents  were  still  in  in- 
digence! Her  own  better  Lot  oppressed 
her !  He  sympathized  with  her  Sorrow,  for 
she  could  not  be  happy ;  and  neither  could 
he,  for  Happiness  seemed  out  of  his  reach. 
He  felt  the  prevailing  power  of  Family  Ties, 
which  bind  more  closely  than  frivolous  per- 


164  HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 

sons  imagine,  for  in  this  way  Nature  enlarges 
the  circle  of  Domestic  Life  and  gives  a  more 
cordial  view  of  Man's  earthly  condition.  A 
Man  marries  not  only  his  Mother-in-law,  but 
also  all  the  Relations  of  his  Wife.  What  is 
for  their  advantage  or  disadvantage  affects 
him  also.  He  is  not  rich  and  happy  till  they 
are  all  above  want.  The  World  therefore 
considers  it  a  Disgrace  to  him  who  does  not 
feel  himself  still  more  bound  to  her  Family 
than  he  is  to  his  Wife,  even  if  she  were  a 
Paragon,  a  Jewel  among  them.  So  much 
the  more  desirable  is  it,  therefore,  to  stand 
well  with  all  her  Relations,  be  they  who  they 
may,  because  otherwise  the  connection  once 
entered  into  brings  still  greater  Evils  with  it. 
A^nes  always  thought  that  Albert  looked 
down  upon  her  Family,  all  of  them  Artisans, 
with  the  exception  of  her  Father,  the  Opti- 
cian, who  came  into  the  City  to  the  Festi- 
vals, and  played  on  the  Harp  and  sung ;  also 
loved  a  good  Glass  of  Wine ;  also  could  not 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  165 

refuse  the  last — the  intoxicating  one,  after 
which  he  came  and  loaded  his  Daughter 
with  Reproaches,  uttered  with  a  smiling' 
mien,  till  he  moved  himself  to  Tears  by  his 
own  Admonitions !  Or  he  sang  very  comi- 
cally, in  the  voice  of  the  Husband  and  Wife 
alternately,  the  Song  of  "  The  Master  in  the 
House."  Nay,  it  was  said  that  he  himself 
had  made  the  Song  to  show  his  Displeasure. 
This  irritated  his  Daughter,  as  might  be  sup- 
posed. Albert  smiled  at  the  old  man,  for 
there  is  Truth  in  Wine.  He  could  only 
venture  now  to  love  and  praise  the  poor  man 
with  great  limitation ;  but  in  truth  he  esteem- 
ed all  her  Relations.  For  him  there  was 
neither  Condition  nor  Rank  nor  Riches  in 
the  World.  All  its  thousand  Trifles,— its 
thronging  and  striving  and  outbidding,  trou- 
bled him  not.  He  strove  only  after  one  thing, 
and  lived  in  a  world  of  his  own.  Every  one 
was  valued  by  him  at  what  he  was ;  yea  he 
even  rated  him  at  that  which  he  wished  to 


166  HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 

be;  for  as  an  Aitist  he  desired  himself  to  be 
honoured,  as  one  who  knows  better  than  all 
others  what  is  the  true  genuine  worth  of 
everything  he  has  meditated,  and  which  he 
wishes  or  is  able  to  call  into  Existence. 
Only  he  now  learned  that  it  is  not  right  to  do 
good  too  secretly,  so  that  even  our  right  Hand, 
our  Wife,  knows  it  not.  Therein  he  was 
wrong !  For  in  this  way  many  who  are  in 
Need  know  not  where  to  find  Help. 

To  all  the  old  Burdens  was  now  added 
this.  And  as  Bodies  apparently  increase  in 
Weight  the  deeper  they  sink,  so  much  the 
more  heavily  presses  a  Burden  which  has 
been  borne  Days,  Months,  Years.  And  that 
any  one  bears  it  willingly,  lessens  only  the 
Complaints  on  account  of  it.  He  wished  to 
work,  she  wished  Money ;  and  luckily  both 
Desires  were  gratified.  And  it  is  quite  rea- 
sonable that  many  should  strive  after  one 
thing,  but  with  different  views ;  only  no  one 
should  evil  interpret  those  of  the  other,  or 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  167 

force  his  own  upon  him.  It  was  thus  that 
Albert  learnt  to  represent  all  the  Passions, 
the  more  strikingly  they  were  painted,  yea 
burnt  into  the  peaceful  Mirror  of  his  Soul. 
A  knowledge  of  good  and  evil  Passions  fur- 
thers the  Artist:  Love,  Joy,  Pleasure,  Pa- 
tience, Compassion,  Devotion,  Astonishment, 
Horror,  Wrath,  Sadness,  Envy,  Hatred — all 
these  he  succeeded  in  depicting,  because  he 
was  Master  of  them ;  and  with  thankful  and 
upright  heart  he  considered  himself  fortunate 
as — a  Painter,  and  therefore  also  as  a  Man. 
Meanwhile — the  Passions  of  those  whom 
we  love  are  infectious !  And  Albert  painted 
and  carved  and  moulded  many  things  ac- 
cording to  her  Views — and  to  give  her  Plea- 
sure. His  House  was  a  daily  School  of  Dis- 
cipline: not  to  be  avaricious,  or  sulky,  or 
quarrelsome ;  or  yet  dictatorial,  unreasonable, 
and  supercilious  when  everything  succeeded 
to  a  wish.  For  all  the  Faults  of  a  Man 
usually  proceed  from  one  and  the  same  source. 


169 


HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 


It  could  scarcely  be  said  that  Fame  now  gave 
him  Pleasure, — he  lived  by  it  as  it  were  in  a 
sustained  elevated  condition,  which  exercised 
an  advantageous  influence  on  his  Works ; 
for  the  World  gains  for  the  most  part  by  the 
Praise  bestowed  by  itself  on  the  Artist — and 
when  Students  of  the  Arts  and  Masters  made 
a  Pilgrimage  from  Italy  to  Frankfort  to  see 
his  Ascension  of  St.  Mary,*  he  only  uttered 
a  gloomy  Indeed  I  thereto.  For  he  almost 
feared  to  send  a  Painting  to  a  new  place ; — 
first  on  account  of  the  Praise— and  then  on 
account  of  the  Pity.  For  he  who  did  not 
admire  hira  as  a  Painter,  and  yet  could 
not  well  contend  against  his  Worth,  conceal- 
ed his  Envy  by  compassionating  him  as  a 
Man — and  then  he  could  call  him  an  unfor- 
tunate  Painter.     A  confidential  Friend  re- 

*  This  magnificent  picture,  which  was  afterwards  bought 
by  the  Elector  Maximilian  of  Bavaria  for  10,000  florins, 
perished  when  the  Castle  of  Munich  was  burnt  in  1674.— 
Translcdor. 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  169 

counted  to  him  that  Buonarotti  had  deter- 
mined to  make  Art  his  Wife ;  and  it  was  al- 
so said  of  Raphael,  that  he  wished  rather  to 
belong  to  Woman  in  general,  than  that  one 
woman  should  belong  to  him. 

This  grieved  Albert  much,  not  only  for 
the  sake  of  the  Men  themselves,  but  chiefly 
for  Ag-nes's  sake.  He  laboured  much  ;  and 
by  degrees,  in  the  course  of  years,  many  Du- 
cats came  in,  which  Agnes  brightened  up 
and  preserved.  They  were  all  indeed  to  be 
for  her.  At  first  she  only  meant  to  save  as 
much  of  the  Gold  as  would  keep  her  above 
ivant  during  the  few  years  she  might  outlive 
him,  being  younger  than  he ;  then,  there  must 
be  sufficient  to  enable  her  to  live  as  ivell  as 
she  had  been  accustomed  to  do ;  but  at  last, 
the  Interest  of  the  Money  must  be  sufficient 
for  that  purpose.  So  true  is  it  that  the  Chil- 
dren of  Men,  all  of  them,  and  everywhere, 
are  born  with  an  equally  strong  desire  for 
worldly  Prosperity.     They  wish  to  have  and 


170  HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 

to  enjoy  everything ;  but  all  of  them  cannot 
do  so.  And  the  season  of  Youth  is  just  the 
time  for  becoming  inured,  under  the  parental 
roof,  to  the  Condition  which  must  be  entered 
on  and  endured  in  after  life,  and  in  which 
success  may  probably  be  obtained ;  and  the 
Father's  House  is  the  step  from  which  this 
Life  begins.  Man's  future  Life,  therefore,  so 
viewed,  is  just  the  Limitation  of  all  the  De- 
sires of  the  human  Mind  to  the  Measure  of 
Right,  and  to  the  Standard  of  what  is  con- 
sistent with  the  well-being  of  others.  It  is 
also  at  the  same  time  the  School  of  Patience 
and  of  Wisdom ;  it  teaches  every  one  to  be 
content  with  that  which  Life  can  afford  him  ; 
and  in  what  has  been  vouchsafed  him,  to  dis- 
cover every  human  Happiness,  to  carry  his 
own  into  it,  or  place  it  therein.  He  who  does 
not  learn  from  Life,  but  continues  during  its 
whole  course  to  put  forth  the  usual  Claims, 
uncurbed  by  a  thousand  Mortifications,  un- 
diminished, yea  louder  and  more  angrily — 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  171 

he  must  be  dissatisfied,  the  more  vehement 
his  Longings,  the  greater  the  Claims  that 
Youth  and  Beauty,  Skill  and  good  Fortune 
in  general,  appear  to  give  him.  He  does  not 
prize  the  Blessings  which  he  possesses ;  nay 
he  rejects  them  and  enjoys  them  not,  till  he 
becomes  wise — that  is  to  say,  till  they  vanish 
away  from  him. 

Alberts  Mother  Barbara  now  also  died. 
She  was  a  Daughter  of  Kunigunde,  the 
Daughter  of  Oellinger  von  Weissenburg,  and 
therefore  of  gentle  Birth.  Agnes  had  ima- 
gined that  she  must  be  proud  and  look  down 
upon  her  with  contempt.  This  supposition 
wounded  her  pure  natural  Feelings,  and  her 
notions  of  the  Dignity  of  human  Nature. 
She  therefore  wished  to  combat  it ;  and  thus 
his  Mother  had  to  endure  scornful  "Words, 
Derision,  and  even  Fear.  But  the  pious 
Woman  suffered  nothing  therefrom,  because 
she  forgave  everything  to  the  Wife  of  her 
Son,  and  departed,  absolved  by  Papal  Power 


172  HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 

from  Pain  and  Guilt.     God  be  gracious  to 
her! 

She  had  lived  nine  years  in  her  Son's 
House,  and  he  missed  her  sadly ;  for  he  had 

!  1  -only  to  look  into  her  Eyes,  only  to  hear  an 
encouraging  Word  from  her — "  My  Son  I" — 

[  and  he  was  refreshed  and  meek  as  befr)re. 
Her  Eyes  were  now  closed — what  could  he 
have  done  ?  A  Man  is  no  Judge  between 
his  Mother  and  his  Wife ;  and  where  Love 
does  not  reconcile,  all  other  attempts  only  in- 
crease the  Evil. 

There  was  now  indeed  greater  Stillness  in 
the  House  than  ever.  From  all  that  had 
passed,  Agnes  began  to  be  suspicious  even 
of  the  Praise  which  her  Husband  bestowed 
on  her,  thinking  it  was  only  in  Mockery. 
How  ready  she  was  to  apply  to  herself  what 
was  passing  around  her,  may  be  judged  of  by 
this  instance,  that  one  day,  when  he  wrote  a 
large  Seven  on  the  black  table,  as  the  product 
of  a  mental  Calculation,  and  then  went  away, 


FAREAVELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  173 

she  thought  it  alluded  to  her  as  the  evil-re- 
nowned Seven.*  If  he  smiled,  then  she 
wept ;  if  he  pitied  the  poor,  shy,  frightened 
Child,  then  she  laughed.  And  thus  he  pass- 
ed with  the  same  grave  undisturbed  mien 
through  the  hundred-coloured  Days.  She 
called  that  Indifference,  Coldness!  But  he 
would  not  have  suffered  if  he  could  at  last 
have  become  indifferent  to  his  Wife.  The 
Faults  of  those  we  love  cause  us  double  An- 
guish :  they — ah !  they  should  be  more  pure 
and  faultless  than  we !  And  she  never  con- 
fessed a  Fault,  and  he  concealed  them  from 
himself,  and  still  hoped  for  peaceful  Days — 
of  Harvest. 

Alberts  tender-hearted  Scholar  now  played 
him  a  sorry  Trick.  He  felt  for  his  Master 
more  than  if  he  had  been  his  Father,  and 
thinking  that  Alberfs  death  would  make  a 
good  and  lasting  impression  on  Agnes,  he 


*  In  Grermany  it  is  vnlgarly  said  of  a  shrewish  or  mis- 
chievous woman,  that  she  is  a  Bad  Seven.—  Translator. 


174  HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 

had  strapped  on  his  Bundle,  and  taken  leave 
of  them,  but  had  returned  in  the  dark  and 
gone  into  Albert^s  painting  room.  He  then 
put  the  pale  Wax  Mask,  which  had  been 
faithfully  copied  from  Albert^s  Bust,  on  a 
clothed  figure  which  was  to  represent  Albert^ 
and  put  on  it  also  his  old  Painter's  Coat  be- 
daubed with  Colours. 

He  so  placed  it  as  to  lead  to  the  supposi- 
tion that  it  had  fallen  from  the  Ladder,  and 
poured  dark-red  colors,  like  Blood,  over  it. 
He  then  knocked  suddenly  and  alarmingly 
at  Ag'nes^s  door,  who  ran  into  the  Room  hor- 
ror-struck with  a  Light  in  her  hand,  and 
stood  astonished  and  petrified  before  her 
dead  Albert^  knelt  down  by  him,  and  wiped 
the  Blood  from  his  Forehead.  Albert,  who 
had  just  come  home,  then  entered :  she 
looked  round,  and  thought  it  was  his  Ghost 
that  she  saw  stalking  towards  her.  He 
spoke,  and  she  recognised  him,  but  thrust 
him  from  her  blood-red  with   Anger.     She 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    AVIFE.  175 

then  wished  to  make  her  escape,  but  the 
Light  having  been  extinguished  by  the 
draught  from  her  dress,  she  could  not  find 
the  Door.  At  length,  both  having  composed 
themselves,  they  embraced  in  the  Dark,  and 
wept  bitterly. 

Dost  thou  know  what  has  happened,  my 
Agnes  1  asked  Albert  at  last.  Thou  art 
alive !  said  she.  No,  replied  he ;  Raphael 
is  dead  !  Leonardo  da  Vinci  is  dead !  These 
tidings  reached  me  to-day  at  the  same  mo- 
ment! 

She  let  go  her  hold  of  him.  The  Might 
of  Heaven,  the  Nothingness  of  the  Earth 
which  lay  in  these  Words — "  Raphael  is 
dead,"  fell  like  a  Thunderbolt.  The  Night 
was  amicably  spent.  Agnes  besought  him 
to  travel  into  the  Netherlands,  and  to  accept 
the  Emperor's  Invitation,  that  he  might  have 
Recreation.  Then  he  would  certainly  no 
longer  need  to  paint.  She  was  as  much 
struck  as  was   the  whole  of  Europe.     Her 


176 


HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 


Husband  had  been  for  her  as  it  were  twice 
restored  to  Life  this  Day.  And  it  is  quite 
amazing,  and  borders  on  the  fabulous,  how 
much  a  great  Man  gains  by  the  Death  of  a 
great  Man.  He  rises  in  value  three-fold, 
like  the  Sibylline  Books.  Because  he  has 
outlived  the  other,  so  he  appears  also  to 
outbid  him;  Hope  yet  shines  on  his  Path, 
and  the  Words  uttered  in  *  his  Praise  are 
laid  by  his  Friends  on  the  Scale  of  the  Liv- 
ing, which  they  often  blow  up  by  empty 
breath  and  idle  praise ; — ^whilst  the  Dead, 
numbered  with  the  Dead,  with  that  prime- 
val, silent,  inactive  Company,  are  dispatched 
with  the  words :  De  mortuis  nil  nisi  bene 
(Say  nothing  but  good  of  the  dead.)  More- 
over, if  he  has  become  old,  if  he  has  out- 
lived the  Masters  of  his  time,  then  he  be- 
comes by  the  Grace  of  God  a  Support  to 
the  Arts  and  to  those  who  understand  Art. 
For  Age  is  even  in  this  respect  a  wonderful 
Gift   of  Grace.      Yea,   the   most  wretched 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  177 

Writer  of  Comedies  in  the  time  of  Aristo- 
phanes^ has  only  to  appear  boldly  among  us 
now,  and  he  would  be  an  Oracle  of  the 
Age ;  if  he  were  only  to  sit  and  say  nothing 
but  the  Words :  That  is  fine  I  that  is  bad ! 
yet  from  Reverence  for  his  long  fabulous 
silver  Beard,  and  because  of  the  Miracle  of 
his  Existence,  he  would  be  chosen  as  a 
Judge,  and  his  Wisdom  praised.  Albert 
was  almost  ashamed  to  live,  now  that 
Raphael  was  dead.  Yet  he  lived  in  his 
Works — 

Now  Agnes  was  not  willing  to  let  him 
go  alone,  because  it  seemed  probable  to  her 
that  he  might  not  return  again.  But  he  felt 
bound  to  her  by  Gratitude;  for  there  was 
never  an  Evening  or  a  Morning  in  which 
he  forgot  that  it  was  through  her  he  had 
been  so  happy  as  to  possess  a  Child — 
through  her  alone  that  he  had  possessed  this 
beloved  Child.  He  had  only  to  think  of  the 
little  Agues,  and  it  was  enough  for  his  Heart, 

12 


178  HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 

enough  to  make  him  honor  his  Wife,  and 
feel  drawn  towards  her.    Otherwise  he  might 

perhaps  long  ago but  there  was  no  such 

othenvise. 

Agones  and  Susanna  now  set  out  with  him. 
The  Honours  he  received  in  the  Towns 
through  which  they  passed  w^ere  valued  by 
him,  only  because  they  gave  him  value  in 
Agnes^s  eyes — or  rather  Toleration.  That 
was  certainly  not  the  right  Feeling.  But 
was  it  doing  any  harm  to  the  World,  as  we 
understand  it?  Or  should  we  not  turn  its 
Blessings  to  the  best  account  for  ourselves  ? 
Therefore  he  gave  away  Pictures,  such  as 
that  of  St.  Anna  and  St.  Marij^  with  the 
Infant  Christy  to  the  Bishop  of  Bamberg, 
because  he  had  invited  him  to  be  his  Guest, 
and  had  paid  for  him  at  the  Inn.  At  Ant- 
werp the  Painters  invited  him  to  their 
Rooms,  with  his  Wife  and  Susanna.  They 
had  a  complete  Service  of  Plate,  other  costly 
Ornaments,  and  an  extravagantly  fine  Din- 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  179 

ner.  Their  Wives  were  also  there.  When 
he  was  conducted  to  Table,  there  was  a 
Crowd  of  People  on  both  sides,  as  if  he 
had  been  a  Lord  ;  and  among  them  were 
several  persons  of  eminence,  who  showed 
their  Respect  for  him,  by  profound  Rever- 
ences. Late  in  the  night  they  all  accompa- 
nied him  and  his  Wife  home  with  Torches. 
Agnes  could  not  sufficiently  express  her 
Amazement,  and  became  quite  perplexed  and 
meditative. 

Albert  received  a  sad  but  salutary  warn- 
ing, when,  having  left  his  Wife  in  Antwerp, 
and  taken  shipping  on  the  coast,  with  the 
intention  of  disembarking  again  at  Armyud, 
he  was  prevented  by  a  Tempest,  which 
broke  the  Cable,  and  drove  him  out  into  the 
midst  of  the  frightful  Billows  of  the  Sea. 
During  the  Danger  he  became  conscious 
that  his  Agnes  might,  must,  and  would  one 
Day  live  without  him !  This  Feeling  slum- 
bered in  his  Heart  from  that  Day,  and  like 


180  HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 

a  living  Being,  opened  sometimes  an  Eye 
and  looked  at  him,  or  moved  within  him. 

He  now  went  from  Antwerp  to  Mechlin. 
Margaret^  the  Sister  of  Charles  F!,*  wished 
to  see  his  Agnes.  She  said  she  would 
rather  die  than  allow  herself  to  be  rated  and 
scrutinized  Body  and  Soul  by  the  haughty, 
crafty  Dame,  without  daring  to  utter  a  Word 
in  return.  But  it  was  of  no  use  kicking  and 
struggling.  She  adorned  herself  in  the  midst 
of  Tears. 

Margaret  however  received  the  still  beau- 
tiful Agnes,  who  had  put  on  her  most  amia- 
ble Countenance,  very  kindly.  She  desired  her 
to  sit  down,  and  brought  to  her  herself  Wine 
and  the  finest  Pastry.     You  are  our  dear 

*  This  is  a  mistake  (rf  the  author.  Charles  V.  had  no 
sister  of  that  name.  Margaret,  daughter  of  the  Emperor 
Maximilian,  and  aunt  of  Charles,  at  that  time  Governess 
of  the  Netherlands,  must  be  the  person  meant.  DOrer 
himself  makes  the  same  mistake  in  his  journal. — Trans- 
lator. 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  181 

Mistress  Agnes,  said  she  to  her,  for  you  know 
how  to  value  an  Artist,  so  as  to  benefit  him 
and  the  World.  An  Artist's  Marriage  is,  it 
is  true,  only  that  of  a  Man,  and  the  Wife  is 
the  Husband's  Help  and  Comfort,  whatever 
be  his  calling  or  station.  And  every  Hus- 
band stands  in  need  of  Encouragement,  of 
Cheerfulness,  of  Peace  in  his  Home,  to  ena- 
ble him  to  bear  what  Life  brings  with  it,  and 
still  to  preserve  the  power  of  working  for  the 
benefit  of  Mankind.  Cheerfulness  gives  the 
highest  Power  to  do,  and  to  endure,  my  beau- 
tiful Angel.  But  if  he  find  a  gloomy  Coun- 
tenance at  Home,  where  formerly  his  smiling 
Wife  sat;  if  he  hear  nothing,  or  a  Murmur, 
from  whence  formerly  sweet  Words  pene- 
trated his  Heart ;  if  he  feel  better  and  hap- 
pier elsewhere  than  in  his  own  Home,  then 
Good-night  to  Peace,  Good-night  to  Mar- 
riage. When  Husbands  remain  out  of  their 
own  Houses  as  often  as  possible  during  the 
Day,  and  as  long  as  possible  during  the  Eve- 


182  HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 

ning,  seeking  for  Happiness  elsewhere,  then 
that  is  a  sign  that  Marriage  is  good  for  noth- 
ing to  the  Man,  or  to  the  Wife,  or  to  both  to- 
gether. For  had  one  of  them  been  only 
properly  mild  and  reasonable,  patient  and 
firm ;  and  the  other  only  yielding  and  willing 
to  receive  Instruction ;  then  both  might  have 
found  Happiness  and  held  it  fast.  Friend- 
ship, even  with  the  Friends  of  our  Youth, 
must  be  very  much  limited  in  Marriage — for 
the  Wife  is  the  Husband's  best  Friend. 
And  to  every  one  his  own.  Only  the  disap- 
pointed have  recourse  to  their  old  Friends 
again.  But  your  Albert,  dear,  beautiful  Ag- 
nes,  remains  kindly  at  Home,  as  I  hear,  and 
throws  no  false  colour  on  you,  but  the  true 
one— on  himself. 

Agnes  burned  to  speak,  and  if  her  Hus- 
band during  many  long  Years  had  learned 
to  read  every  one  of  her  Features,  she  would 
then  have  said :  Is  this  Mockery  ?  How ! 
are  the   Great  then  like  Pulpit  Orators,  to 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE. 


183 


whom  no  one  can  utter  one  word  in  reply, 
but  may  only  think  and  smile  ?  But  hereaf- 
ter! only  have  Patience!  Certainly  one  can 
injure  another  by  flattering  words,  so  that  he 
can  say  nothing  in  reply — but  he  who  is  fair 
and  just,  so  regulates  his  talk,  that  he  injures 
the  Feelings  of  none.  Thou  cunning  One ! 
Margaret  then  took  Agnes's  Hand,  pulled 
off  her  Glove,  looked  at  the  little  delicate 
white  Hand,  stroked  it,  and  held  her  own 
near  it,  as  if  she  were  measuring  the  Fingers. 
She  then  chose  from  a  little  Jewel-Box  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  of  many  Rings,  put  it 
on  Agnes^s  Finger,  and  said  graciously : 
Take  this  from  me  as  a  token  of  the  Grati- 
tude of  all  your  Husband's  Friends.  For  I 
honour  and  love  him  much — ^with  such  a 
Love  as  can  make  no  Woman  jealous,  not 
even  you,  beautiful  Agnes.  1  love  his  Mind 
and  what  he  brings  forth  from  it ;  you  love 
himself,  you  alone  possess  him,  his  Heart, 
his  Feelings,  and  his  earthly  Existence.     But 


184  HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 

it  is  proper,  and  yet  not  rightly  understood 
among  Men,  that  the  World  should  in  an  es- 
pecial manner  honour  the  Wife  of  the  Ar- 
tist! For  she  is  the  Honour  of  his  House. 
If  she  is  not  happy,  then  his  Happiness  is — 
Unhappiness.  She  is  united  to  him  as  the 
Elm  is  to  the  Vine ;  he  is  the  sweet,  the  pro- 
ductive part  to  the  World ;  but  she  holds  and 
supports  him,  so  that  he  brings  forth  Grapes ; 
and  without  her — he  sinks  to  the  Ground. 

She  turned  away  for  a  Moment.  At  the 
sight  of  her  moist  Eyes,  Alberts  fell  to  the 
Ground.  Agnes  held  the  Glass  very  pictu- 
resquely to  her  purple  Lips,  and  appeared  to 
be  sipping  some  of  the  sparkling  Wine. 

Drink  not  so,  good  Agnes,  continued  Mar- 
garet. Drink  to  the  Health  of  your  own 
Master :  Long  Life  and  happy  Days ! 

And  Agnes  whispered,  looking  at  her  and 
not  at  him :  Long  Life  and  happy  Days! 

That  is  as  it  ought  to  be,  said  the  Princess. 
Now  your  Health  must  also  be  drunk  by  him 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  185 

and  by  me!  for  as  the  Artist  cannot  work,  if 
only  a  Cloud — nay,  even  the  Shadow  of  a 
Cloud — darken  his  Soul,  not  to  speak  of  a 
Sorrow  which  tears  his  Heart, — and  if  it  is 
only  by  the  great,  free,  superior  power  of  a 
pure  Nature  that  he  can  work,  but  withal  be- 
comes therethrough  fully  abstracted  and  re- 
leased from  worldly  things,  and  at  last  with 
mild  Ardour  reverences  the  Saints  still  more 
than  he  feels  an  ardent  desire  to  represent 
them, — then  I  drink  to  your  Heahh !  We 
have  to  thank  you  for  the  great  number  of 
the  Master's  Works!  You  fan  away  Care 
from  him ;  he  is  free  from  human  Wants 
through  you.  For  what  little  the  Artist  has 
need  of  on  Earth,  and  yet  must  continue  to 
demand  from  it,  that  you  bestow  upon  him 
lovingly,  so  that  he  scarcely  knows  whence 
it  has  come  to  him ;  were  it  not  that  he  re- 
cognises your  quiet  beneficent  Angel's  Hand 
in  the  Gift,  by  the  calm  Peace  which  reigns 
around  him !     Thus  he  traces  nothing  of  the 


186  HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 

rough  World — but  your  Love,  which  like  a 
mild  spring  Sunshine  makes  his  Heart  large 
and  his  Soul  great.  Therefore  it  is  your 
good  Fortune  to  share  the  enthusiastic  Joy 
which  carries  him  as  it  were  a  step  further  on 
the  Path  of  Life — as  if  Heavenly  Spirits  had 
ministered  to  his  Soul — when  he  beholds  an- 
other Work  completed  by  his  own  Hand. 
But  there  is  a  God  who  rewards  not  only 
Pain :  no,  dear  Agones,  he  rewards  also  pure, 
loving  Joy !  And  for  everything  that  you  do 
and  are  to  your  Husband,  God  will  reweird 
you.     Believe  that  of  a  surety. 

What  frightful  things  she  says !  Were  it 
indeed  so!  muttered  AgTies,  staring  before 
her.  Then  recovering  herself,  she  turned  to 
Margaret,  and  said:  Gracious  lady!  I  un- 
derstand you;  but  you  do  not  understand 
me ;  and  yet  you  are  a  Woman.  So  be  it  I 
I  can  endure  this  no  longer.  But  mark  well ! 
human  Judgment  is  defective :  He  alone  can 
judge  who  knows  all  Hearts ;  but  He  judges 


FAREWELL. TO    HIS    WIFE. 


187 


not,  because  he  knows  them,  and  because  He 
formed  them. 

You  know,  said  Margaret^  turning  to  Al- 
bert^ that  the  Emperor  said,  when  a  Noble- 
man was  not  willing  to  hold  the  Ladder  to 
you  at  his  command,  because  he  thought  his 
Nobility  would  thereby  be  sullied — that  you 
were,  on  account  of  the  excellency  of  your 
Art,  greater  than  a  Nobleman,  because  he 
could  make  any  Peasant  a  Nobleman,  but 
could  not  make  a  Nobleman  an  Artist; — 
here  then  the  Emperor  presents  to  you  also 
the  golden  Chain,  the  Badge  and  Ornament 
of  a  Knight.*  You  are  this  day  invited  to 
his  Table ;  you  are  also  appointed  his  Court 
Painter.     Therefore,  if  you  feel  as  you  speak. 


*  It  was  Maximilian  who  bestowed  letters  of  nobility,  and 
also  a  handsome  pension,  on  Diirer ;  but  he  continued  af- 
terwards to  experience  the  liberality  of  the  illustrious  Charles 
V.  and  his  brother  Ferdinand,  King  of  Hungary.  The 
golden  chain  is  of  course  the  same  that  is  mentioned  by  the 
author  as  having  been  laid  aside  by  Diirer  on  his  deathbed. 
— Translator. 


188 


HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 


dear  A^nes^  you  will  rejoice  in  the  Honours 
of  your  Husband!  Your  name  will  live 
with  his,  when  we,  whose  Appanage  in  Life 
has  been  high  Rank,  shall  appear  only  as 
Names  on  the  withered  genealogical  Tree, 
only  as  faded  Ink. — Now  go  in  peace. 

Agnes  hastened  away,  her  Face  much 
flushed.  Margaret  made  a  Sign  to  Albert 
to  come  back  again.  She  stood  a  little  while 
mute  and  contemplative;  she  then  said  to 
him :  I  am  sorry  for  the  poor  Child  never- 
theless— she  is  but  a  Woman ;  and  I  cannot 
conceal  from  you,  that  I  should  not  like  to 
have  such  a  perfect  Husband,  who  lives  in 
Heaven,  and  only  descends  sometimes  gra- 
ciously to  dwell  with  us  on  Earth ;  and  who, 
removed  beyond  the  reach  of  Woman's 
Judgment,  is  himself  just  so  much  the  more 
praised  and  honoured.  We  Women  prefer 
a  human  being  like  ourselves. 

Albert  made  an  obeisance.  Then  Marga- 
ret observed  the  Ring  in  the  bottom  of  the 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  189 

Wine-glass,  which  AgTies  had  just  set  down. 
Take  it,  she  said ; — I  give  it  now  a  second 
time,  and  in  a  very  different  sense,  to  your 
Wife — as  a  Woman. 

Agnes  was  not  to  be  seen.  She  lay  at 
Home  sick,  and  the  Apothecary  received 
fourteen  Stivers,  and  the  Monk  who  visited 
her,  eight  Stivers.  She  then  packed  up,  and 
that  signified  to  Albert  that  they  were  to  set 
out  on  their  homeward  Journey  to  the  dear 
familiar  Nurnberg, 

She  there  buried  herself  in  Loneliness  and 
Fancies,  which  went  on  multiplying  within 
her.  The  Words  of  Margaret  operated  very 
powerfully  afterwards:  and  Agnes  also  mur- 
mured, because  the  Princess  had  considered 
him  richly  and  well  paid  by  these  Words  for 
many  Works  which  he  had  executed  for  her, 
or  presented  to  her.  He  had  also  presented 
to  the  King  of  Denmark^  who  was  in  Brus- 
sels^ some  of  the  best  of  his  Engravings — out 
of  respect.     For  it  was  a  delight  to  him  to 


190 


HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 


give  pleasure  to  the  World  by  his  Works, 
and  he  lived  to  please  every  one.  Only  he 
should  not  give  Presents  to  great  people, 
thought  Agnes.  But  in  this  he  certainly  did 
not  agree.  The  Rich  must  pay  for  the  Poor ! 
thought  she.  And  so  he  was  often  obliged 
to  bargain  with  a  poor  Purchaser  of  his 
Works  for  a  few  Florins  more — instead  of 
remitting  the  whole !  But — Hanns  Frei^  his 
Father-in-law,  had  now  lain  for  two  years 
sick ;  his  Wife  died,  and  a  Sepulchre  was 
built  for  them  and  Albert  together ;  and  after 
the  lapse  of  nearly  two  years,  his  Father-in- 
law  died  also.  Agnes^s  Grief  was  thus 
doubly  deep;  for  her  Father  had  departed 
this  Life  in  the  midst  of  Reverses  of  Fortune 
almost  beyond  endurance,  and  her  Life  and 
her  Strivings  now  began  to  appear  to  her  as 
a  vain  thing.  She  had  a  House,  and  every- 
thing in  it  that  was  needful — a  State-room, 
fine  Clothes,  a  prospect  for  the  future  that 
could  not  fail  her,  Honour — as  much  as  she 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  191 

could  wish, — but  all  too  late^  all  not  so  much 
in  unison  as  her  young  brain  had  settled  it ; 
for  this,  in  her  opinion,  was  what  every  hu- 
man being  should  strive  after  as  the  chief 
business  of  Life !  Possession  is  dead.  Striv- 
ing is  alive ;  and  therefore  Striving  and 
Longing  must  be  sufficient.  To  attain,  is  to 
pour  Oil  on  the  Sea  of  our  Wishes :  to  at- 
tain too  late,  is  pouring  Gall  instead  of  Oil. 

In  these  latter  Days  Melancthon  had  come  , 
to  Nurnherg ;  he  was  as  it  were   Lutherh 
Secretary  of  State,  and  brought  everything^ 
into  a  world-enduring  valid  Form,  uniting 
the  new  Grafts  to  the  well-cropped  Trees 
with  an  Artist's  Hand,  so  that  the  sap  of  the  \ 
old  Trunk  might  produce  new  and   noble  j 
Fruit.      Albert  adhered   to   the    Old  Light  j 
which  had  arisen  again  in  the  New  Time.  \ 
He  was  accustomed  to  think  as  an  Artist,  to 
go  back  to  the  Source  of  Things,  and  from   . 
their  formation,  to  the  Mind  which  formed  [ 
them ;  accustomed,  when  possible,  to  imprint 


192 


HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 


,  his   Thoughts   more   beautifully   and   truly. 
j  These  he  then  applied  to  the  operations  of 
I  the  Mind  of  Man,  and  soon  all  was  Light 
and  Purity  within.      Now  these   men  had 
excluded  marriage  from  the   Sacraments — 
Albert  praised  the  new  Creed  in  general ; 
and  thus  it  appeared  to  A^es  that  he  ad- 
hered to  it — in  order  that  divorce  might  be 
open  to  him.     She  shuddered  at  the  sight  of 
Melancthon  wherever  she  met  him,  and  ihe 
difference  of  their  Faith   at   last  estranged 
Agones  and  Albert.     She  now  believed  that 
they  would  inhabit  different   Heavens,  that 
i  they  had  been  made  by  two  different  Gods, 
i  and  as  her  Mind  was  withdrawn  from  him, 
'  so  was  also  her  Life — and  Marriage  is  pre- 
eminently  a  Union  of  Lives !     Oftentimes 
she  lamented  that  he  would  be  lost  in  Time 
and  in  Eternity,  at  which  he  smiled  *     But 


*  The  honest  evangelical  Painter  (for  such  alone  are  the 
genuine,  the  enduring,  whose  Works  never  become  Chime- 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE. 


193 


when  he  wished  to  adduce  proofs  to  her,  I 
then   she  said  :  Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan  !  I 

These  words  stung  him  so  deeply,  after 
all  the  Grief  he  had  endured,  and  all  the 
kind  intentions  of  his  Heart,  that  he  re- 
solved actually  to  go  away  from  her,  only 
not  like  him  to  whom  she  had  compared 
him,  but  magnanimously,  yea  prodigally! 
Love  likes  to  boast  great  things,  likes  to 
play  the  Queen,  to  appear  rich,  all-sacrifi- 
cing, divinely-joyful — and  yet  weeps  quite 
humanly.  And  this  justly.  Love  is  suffi- 
cient to  itself;  what  it  gives  it  receives  again 
a  thousand  fold  as  if  from  God;    what  it 


ras  of  the  Brain)  certainly  acknowledged  the  sincerity  of 
his  Wife,  who  would  willingly  have  known  him  happy 
here  and  hereafter;  and  he  respected  the  uneasiness  she 
had  endured  for  Years,  and  which  he  had  endeavoured 
to  dissipate  by  loving  Persuasion  and  by  Reason;  but 
Reason  finds  difficult  access  to  those  who  are  at  en- 
mity, and  almost  more  difficult  still  to  those  who  love ! 
—  VF.P. 


13 


194  HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 

■t  must  do  without  it  enjoys  a  thousand  fold, 
by  having  a  dreamy,  soulful,  sympathetic 
perception  of  the  Enjoyment  of  the  beloved 
object.     Rare  Power  I      Miracle  of  Nature 
— so   natural   to   him   who   bears  it  in  bis 
1  Heart!     The    World    is   worth   nothing   to 
\  him  who  has  this  power ;  but  he  who  has  it 
not  cannot  attain  it  if  he  would   give  the 
.  whole  World  for  it — not  for  his  own  Exist- 
'.  ence ; — or  rather,  he  does  not  believe  that  he 
J  could  purchase  it  therewith,  because  he  dare 
j  not  venture  to  throw  his  Existence  away  for 
such  unwonted  Gain.     Yet  let  it  be  under- 
stood :  Albert  left  everything  to  his  beloved 
Agnes;  he   counted   the   Gold — there  were 
;  six  thousand  Florins ;    he  looked  over   the 
;  Engravings,  the  Pictures — he   left  them   to 
her.     But  he  left  to  her  also  a  more  precious 
than  all — namely,  herself;   and,  in  her,  his 
Existence,  his    Mind,  his   Love,  which   he 
i  regarded   as   nothing,  just  because   she  re- 
garded them  as  nothing. 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  195 

This  Feeling  made  him  so  desponding, 
that  he  now  also  deemed  as  nothing  that  to 
which  he  had  devoted  his  Life,  and  executed 
with  so  much  love — his  Art  and  his  Works. 
Nay  he  even  wished  to  go  back  to  Hungary^ 
to  the  little  Village  of  Eytas  from  whence 
his  Grandfather,  Ant(m  Durer,  had  wandered 
to  Nurnherg  as  a  poor  Goldsmith  ; — there  he 
would  no  more  be  heard  of, — again  foster- 
ing the  Vine,  planting  Trees,  cutting  Branch- 
es, gleaning  Grapes,  as  his  Fathers,  very  wor- 
thy people,  had  done — also  without  a  Name 
to  leave  behind.  But — his  habit  of  Industry 
did  not  permit  him  this  even  in  his  waking 
Dreams.  Peace  was  all  he  now  desired — i 
Peace — Peace  for  his  last  best  Works,  which 
he  had  carried  about  with  him  through  Life ! 
These  must  yet  be  completed !  They  would 
yet  bring  many  gold  Pieces  to  Agnes  !  For 
it  never  entered  his  thoughts  to  divorce  her; 
— she  would  be  happy  when  he  was  not 
with  her — that  he  both  wished  and  thought. 


196  HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 

For  even  if  the  new  Doctrine  had  permitted 
it,  still  he  was  so  accustomed  to  his  old  Faith 
that  he  perceived  it  was  only  they  who  adopt- 
ed the  new  as  Children,  who  would  one  day 
put  it  into  Practice  in  the  affairs  of  Life ; — 
not  this  Generation.  The  only  scriptural 
Ground  for  Divorce  was  also  awanting  to 
him ;  for  into  the  subtleties  contained  in  the 
question  as  to  the  multifarious  ways  in  which 
Marriage  may  be  broken,  his  Heart  did  not 
enter,  although  they  had  often  exercised  his 
Thoughts. 

And  so  he  parted  for  a  time  from  his  Agnes. 

It  was  a  Saturday ;  the  day  on  which  he 
always  heretofore  gave  thanks  to  God  for 
the  often  wondrously  accomplished  week. 
If  he  was  not  moved  to  this  by  the  Current  of 
the  World,  then^  at  his  Evening  Prayer,  he 
was  certain  to  be  so.  This  reverential  feel- 
ing on  the  Saturday  arose  perhaps  secretly 
from  the  knowledge  that  it  was  the  true  an- 
cient Sunday.     Therefore  he  chose  this  day 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  197 

for  his  Departure ;  for  he  certainly  meant  to 
do  a  good  Deed.  He  was  ready  dressed,  and 
had  nothing  in  his  pocket  but  a  few  Stivers 
for  his  Journey.  Agones  yet  slept.  He  ap- 
proached her  Bed.  He  admired  the  Wife, 
who  might  have  made  him  so  happy.  Ah  I 
and  she  herself  appeared  to  be  so  miserable 
with  him,  and  through  him,  that  he  wept  for 
the  first  time  almost  aloud.  He  kissed  her 
bare  Arm  which  was  lying  on  the  Coverlet 
She  half  opened  her  Eyes. 

— I  am  going !  whispered  he. 

God  be  with  you!  said  she,  as  if  in  a 
Dream. 

— I  will  come  again !  said  he. 

But  say  that,  I  pray  thee,  to  one  of  thy 
Friends  also !  said  she. 

I  will !  said  he. 

So  then  he  took  his  Departure.*  It  was 
early  Spring.     The  Morning  Sun  smiled  on 

*  Just  sixty  Years  after  this,  W.  Shakespear  left  his  Wife 
and  Children. — /,  the  Editor. 


198  HOW    ALBERT    BIDS 

him  as  he  left  the  House.  He  smiled  in  re- 
turn, when  he  looked  at  the  double  Eagle 
over  the  Gate.  But  when  he  had  gone 
' '  through  the  Streets  in  the  still  Morning,  and 
had  got  out  as  far  as  Master  SebalcPs  the 
Wheelmaker,  who  dwelt  near  the  Sonnen- 
bade,  and  who  prepared  his  wooden  Blocks 
for  him ;  and  when  the  Geese  on  the  young 
grass  hissed  at  him,  and  he  saw  the  little 
bright  yellow  Goslings  feeding  in  the  Morn- 
ing Dew,  then  he  leant  on  the  Hedge  of  the 
little  Garden  ;  and  when  by  degrees  he  roused 
himself  from  his  Reverie,  he  heard  from 
within  the  House  Master  Sebald  recounting 
to  his  Wife  and  Children  and  Comrades  at 
breakfast  a  new  Jest,  which  Master  Hanns 
Sachs*  had  circulated  among  the  people  for 
the  first  time  the  Night  before.  The  Wife 
and  Children  laughed !  that  was  a  Dagger  to 
his  Heart.  Ah !  there  was  Joy  in  this  House, 
as  well  as  in  that  of  Master  Sachs  !     He  took 

*  A  shoemaker  and  poet  in  Nurnberg. —  Translator. 


FAREWELL    TO    HIS    WIFE.  199 

Courage,  however,  entered  and  bespoke  new 
blocks  from  Master  Sebald  to  be  ready  when 
he  should  return  from  Flanders.  And  the 
Husband  stood  reverentially  before  him,  his 
Cap  in  his  hand ;  the  Wife  kept  her  bare 
arms  folded  in  her  Apron,  out  of  respect  for 
him ;  and  the  Children,  as  if  almost  afraid  of 
him,  stood  clinging  to  her.  He  smiled — for 
he  knew  better !  The  Geese  hissed  at  him 
again  as  he  went  forth,  but  he  smiled — for  he 
knew  better ! 

As  the  young  Branches  of  the  Vine  with 
their  green  Tendrils  often  attain  no  Object 
around  which  to  entwine  themselves,  and  so 
bend  back ;  thus  many  of  Alberfs  Feelings 
had  not  reached  Agnes :  as  however  in  Au- 
tumn the  Vine-dresser  breaks  off  also  the 
firmly  fixed  and  now  dried  up  Tendrils  of  the 
Branch,  so  he  intended  to  tear  himself  loose. 
His  separation  had  already  lasted  so  long! 
But  it  was  only  after  many  Years  and  with 
Pain,  that  his  Thoughts  and  Feelings  could 


200      HOW    ALBERT    BIDS    FAREWELL,  ETC. 

/  be  severed  from  her.     For  that  Nvhich  ap- 
pears visibly  in  the  World  as  a  Work,  or  as 
;  a  Deed,  must  all — long,  long  before — have 
;  existed  and  been  ripening ;  and  what  in  like 
I  manner  the  World  sees  of  Undertakings  are 
/  all  Fruits  which  have  fallen  from  the  Tree  of 
:  Life  : — for  the  rest,  the  World  perceives  noth- 
ing but  Leaves,  and  hears  the  rustling  there- 
of !    Things  bloom  concealed — covered  over, 
^  like  the  Fig,  with  its  own  leaf.     Thus  the 
Past  comes  to  maturity  only  in  the  Present, 
and  in  the  Present  is  sown  the  Seed  of  the 
Future.     We  often  lose  our  Health  for  Years 
on  account  of  a  thousand  little  Errors ;  we 
I  die  in  consequence  of  living.     Sickness  is  an 
j  exertion  of  Nature  to  heal  us,  to  restore  to  its 
5  natural  Proportion  all  that  has  been  endured 
^or  done  amiss,  and  to  allow  us  to  expiate  it 
iby  Suffering,  in  order  that  we  may  become 
hvise  for  the  Years  that  yet  remain  to  us. 


PEACE   IN  LIFE. 

Albert  proposed  extending  his  Wander- 
ings so  far  as  to  secure  himself,  and  his  poor 
self-torturing  Agnes,  against  a  sudden  Return, 
the  desire  for  which  seized  him  every  eve- 
ning. He  had  in  truth  no  longer  been  able 
to  endure  the  sight  of  her  self-torture ;  for 
what  manly  Mind,  not  burdened  by  the 
weight  of  a  Crime  against  Heaven,  would 
allow  itself  seriously  to  be  bowed  down  by 
a  Woman !  Women,  indeed,  never  wish  so 
to  bow  down  a  Man ;  only  they  do  not  al- 
ways understand  how  to  limit  their  desires, 
or  on  the  other  hand  to  forget  them.  Alas ! 
and  Life  demands  so  much  from  us,  so  much 
Endurance  and  Sacrifice!  The  worst  of 
Life  is,  that  we  all  live  on  this  Earth  for  the 
first  time.     Everything  is  new ;  no  one  gets 


202  PEACE    IN    LIFE. 

accustomed  to  the  perpetual  Surprises — at 
best  only  accustomed  to  be  surprised.  Even 
the  old^  the  daily-recurring,  finds  us  every 
day  neio  and  changed  in  Age,  in  Mind,  in 
Likes  and  Dislikes,  so  that  it  often  operates 
more  strangely,  more  peculiarly  than  the  new, 
to  whose  impressions  we  yet  hesitate  to  re- 
sign ourselves.  And  thus  to  know  how  to 
live  requires  perpetual  Genius — for  Life  is 
the  highest  of  all  Arts.  Only  no  one  believes 
this,  because  he  fancies  he  knows  how  to 
live,  as  every  one  fancies  he  knows  how  to 
love,  when  he  looks  deep  into  the  Eye  of  a 
beautiful  Maiden.  Alas!  Love  also  is  an 
Art — but  it  consists  not  in  Raptures  and  En- 
thusiasm ;  it  is  not  to  wander  in  the  Moon- 
light, to  listen  to  the  Song  of  the  Nightingale, 
to  kneel  before  the  Beloved,  to  languish  and 
pine  for  her  Kiss!  No;  this  is  the  Art  of 
Love : — to  preserve  its  Fire,  its  godly  Trea- 
sure ;  to  cairy  about  its  Riches  through  Life 
as  if  in  pure  Gold ;  to  spend  it  for  him  alone 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  203 

to  whom  the  Heart  is  devoted ;  to  be  always 
ready  to  sympathize,  to  smile,  to  weep,  to  as- 
sist, to  counsel,  to  alleviate ;  in  short,  to  live 
with  the  Beloved  as  he  lives,  and  thus,  by 
virtue  of  an  indwelling  Heavenly  Power,  to 
preserve  invariably  a  Heavenward  direction. 
And  this  Art  is  the  highest,  the  tenderest 
Love.  He  who  possesses  it  knows  what 
Love  is.  The  greater  part  of  Men  can  sacri- 
fice Hours  and  Days  and  Wealth;  but  to 
bear  and  to  suffer  patiently  for  Years,  never 
to  consider  one's  own  Life  and  Wellbeing, 
to  pine  away  gradually,  to  suffer  Death  in  the 
Heart,  and  yet  to  hasten  to  the  Arms  of  the 
Beloved  as  soon  as  they  are  again  opened  to 
us,  and  then  to  be  happy,  yea  blest,  as  if 
nothing  had  been  amiss,  as  if  no  time  had 
elapsed  between  that  moment  and  the  first 
embrace, — all  this  Love  can  do.  It  now  ap- 
peared to  Albert  that  he  and  Agnes  had  only 
been  fettered  by  some  inconceivable  Power. 
This  conviction  gave  him  Courage.     He  ar- 


204 


PEACE    IN    LIFE. 


rived  at  it  now  for  the  first  time — alas!  al- 
most too  late  for  this  Life,  and  therefore  he 
wished  there  had  been  a  Life  for  Man  before 
this,  in  order  that  he  might  again  live  peace- 
fully, wisely,  and  happily ;  since  everything 
in  the  World  and  in  the  human  Heart  springs 
from  Love — and  no  Man  has  thus  any  cause 
\  truly  to  grieve.     For  a  noble  Heart  cares  for 

i  nothing  else  than  to  be  worthy  of  the  Love  of 
those  whom  he  loves — and  also  worthy  in 
i  general ;  and  no  one  can  tell  him  this  so  well 
1  as  his  own  Heart,  judging  even  from  a  thou- 
sand Actions.  Thus  Albert  saw  that  even  he 
ought  now  to  be  satisfied !  and  concluding,  by 
his  own  Feelings,  how  his  Agnes  also  must 
feel  in  her  Heart,  he  attained  to  the  Know- 
ledge, that  everything  is  ordered  by  Love, 
and  that  we  must  improve  the  divinely-grant- 
ed Time,  by  bestowing  it  one  on  another. 
This  Albert  now  intended  honestly  to  do  to- 
wards Agnes  I* 

♦  Thou  upright  Soul !  how  much  thou  hast  reflected,  and 


PEACE    IN    LIFE. 


205 


It  was  during  his  Wanderings  that  he  felt 
these  Convictions  in  all  their  force. 

He  went  to  visit  Lucas  of  LeydeM,  Even 
the  Name  of  the  Town  attracted  him  thither.* 
During  his  first  sojourn  in  Holland-^  he  had 
formed  an  intimate  Friendship  with  Lucas, 
and  now,  separated  from  his  Wife,  he  both 
needed  and  recognised  a  Friend.  And  he 
found  one  in  him.  Oh!  ever  kind  World ! 
thou  hast  Riches  ready  prepared  for  him  who 
rejoices,  as  well  as  for  him  who  mourns! 
How  unhappy  soever  any  one  may  be.  Na- 
ture is  always  true  to  him ! 

He  had  thought  it  would  be  with  him  as 
with  a  shipwrecked  Mariner,  who,  after  hav- 
ing been  long  tossed  about  on  the  cold 
Waves  till  he  is  benumbed,  finds  himself  at 

how  much  Cause  hast  thou  had  for  reflection !  And  thou 
wert  now  repenting  instead  of  her!  And  Repentance — 
even  that  which  is  felt  for  others — leads  to  Acknowledgment. 
Thy  Kernel  remained  sweet. —  W.  P. 

*  Leiden— Suffering. — Translator. 


206  PEACE    IN    LIFE. 

last  washed  ashore  on  the  flowery  Bank  of  a 
lonely  Island.  But  he  now  felt  as  if  he  had 
been  washed  by  the  Waves  from  the  Shore 
out  into  the  cold  Sea !  Nothing  was 
awanling ;  everything  was  arranged  for  him 
in  a  comfortable  and  friendly  manner.  Clean 
Linen  lay  every  Morning  spread  out  on  his 
chair ;  his  Clothes  were  brushed  and  free 
from  every  speck  of  Dust ;  he  rose,  and 
went  to  sleep,  whenever  he  liked  ;  he  looked 
at  the  People  out  of  the  Window ;  he  went 
wherever  he  pleased.  Oppressive  Freedom ! 
To  everything  he  was  indifferent,  all  within 
him  was  so  still  and  so  monotonous  I  What 
was  there  here  for  him  to  love  ?  To  whom 
had  he  here  every  hour  something  to  for- 
give ?  Who  was  there  here  to  make  him 
sorry;  he  felt  the  sweet  Power  of  Custom 
even  in  what  is  most  bitter!  He  felt  that 
Words  are  nothing,  however  mild  and  rever- 
ential they  may  sound,  if  the  Soul  of  Love 
does  not  glow  and  breathe  upon  us  through 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  207 

them.  And  in  Agnes^s  Words — which  he 
now  missed  in  his  solitary  condition — there 
was  the  Soul  of  a  faithful  Love,  which  was 
never  weary  in  busying  itself  with  him,  in 
being  angry  at  herself  and  at  him,  during 
the  whole  course  of  an  irritable  Existence ! 
Ah !  it  was  impossible  for  an  indifferent 
Heart  so  to  do — for  it  has  neither  the  Will 
nor  the  Power  to  injure  !  And  he  loved  her 
— therefore  he  could  not  be  injured  by  her! 
And  thus  the  feeling  of  his  Love  to  her  was 
quite  enough  for  him,  and  Life  without  her 
difficult,  much  more  difficult  to  bear !  Ah ! 
we  love  perhaps  a  lively  Child,  and  think  it 
impossible  that  our  Love  for  it  can  increase ! 
But  it  becomes  sick — and  we  then  know,  for 
the  first  time,  how  much  more  intensely  and 
also  painfully  we  can  love  it!  Then  do 
new  and  more  delicate  Tendrils  unfold  them- 
selves as  it  were  in  our  Hearts,  with  which  we 
encompass  it  as  Ivy  does  a  half-fallen  Statue. 
And  if  Agnes' s  Love  for  him  was  of  the 


208  PEACE  IN    LIFE. 


most  extraordinary  kind,  still  she  loved  him 
for  all  that  I  That  was  the  chief  point.  Her 
Love  was  like  the  warm  Sunbeam,  shin- 
ing in  the  Window  of  a  Dome  through  a 
fiery-red  Ruby- Glass,  which,  corroded  by 
damp,  reflects  with  its  own  also  the  varied 
hues  of  the  Rainbow.  And — Caprice  is 
never  without  a  Cause,  and  may  not  that 
cause  be  Disease  ?  And  does  not  Disease 
call  for  pity?  Alas!  this,  then,  was  what 
he  could  no  longer  endure  ?  And  was  that 
just  ?  It  is  the  greatest,  the  most  injurious 
Wrong,  not  to  believe  in  Nature. 

Here,  far  away  from  her,  he  had  intended 
to  work — at  so  many  things,  and  so  busily  ! 
But  his  Thoughts  were  far  away  with  her — 
banished  to  her  I  Yet  when  he  was  with 
her,  when  she  was  wandering  around  him, 
then  they  could  rove  in  the  distance,  could 
dwell  where  Thoughts  and  Images  appear 
as  in  a  Heavenly  Dome  full  of  Music  and 
Incense,  from  which  the  Artist  steals  them  as 


PEACE    IN    LIFE. 


209 


it  were  for  the  Earth.  Here,  dwelling  in 
Leyden^  his  Sadness  increased :  he  felt  he 
could  not  be  so  happy  anywhere  as  near 
his  Wife ;  yea,  that  it  was  only  when  he 
was  with  her  that  he  was  truly  happy. — 
There  are  Conditions  in  which  the  Endura- 
ble, the  Imperfect  is  the  best  possible  for  us ; 
and  the  Human  Race  is  continually  sub- 
jected to  such  a  Condition.  Do  we  desire  a 
better  or  happier  Fate  ?  God  forbid  !  Every- 
thing that  is  ours  is  the  best  for  us;  for  we 
choose  perhaps  our  own  Lot  ;  but  what 
we  have  chosen  keeps  us  enclosed  as  in 
"Walls  of  Steel  all  our  lives — and  for  as 
much  better  as  the  Untried  appears  to  us, 
still  we  can  never  attain  to  it,  nor  yet  appro- 
priate it,  because  we  ourselves  are  already 
become  Property.  Let  us  therefore  endure  • 
let  us  be  faithful ! 

He  was  now  in  a  condition  to  perceive 
wherein  he  also  had  erred!  And  Man  never 
attains  Tranquillity,  as  long  as   he  believes 

14 


210  PEACE    IN    LIFE. 


that  he  is  right  in  all  his  Thoughts  and 
Actions  towards  all  the  World !  But  as 
soon  as  he  begins  to  doubt,  as  soon  as  he 
once  admits  the  pre-supposition  that  he  may 
have  gone  astray — ^that  he  must  take  himself 
to  task — then  come  Reconciliation  with  the 
World,  Contentment  and  Peace,  and  with 
recognition  of  the  Truth,  and  acknowledg- 
ment of  his  own  Error,  come  also  at  last  by 
degrees  Satisfaction  and  Happiness  to  his 
Heart,  which  always  speaks  Truth  to  the 
Upright. 

Lucas  celebrated  Alberts  birth-day,  the 
day  of  St  Prudentius^  which  his  Agnes  had 
so  often  taunted  him  with,  when  he  spoke 
prudently.*      Masters    assembled    from    all 

*  The  6th  of  April.  St.  Prudentius  was  by  birth  a 
Spaniard,  and  fled  from  the  swords  of  the  infidels  into 
France,  where  in  840  or  845  he  was  chosen  Bishop  of 
Troyes.  He  was  one  of  the  most  learned  prelates  of  the 
Grallican  church.  His  writings  are  extant  in  the  "  Biblio- 
theca  Patrum." — Translator. 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  211 

quarters,  but  from  tender  consideration  for 
him,  they  had  left  their  Wives  at  home. — 
Bitter ! 

It  is  always  most  agreeable  for  us  Men, 
said  Master  Peter  Gutschaaf^  the  lUuminist, 
when  we  are  quite  among  ourselves,  and 
also  for  the  Women  when  they  are  quite 
among  themselves !  We  are  certainly  of 
two  different  natures,  and  in  this  way  each 
has  undisturbed  and  pleasant  intercourse  with 
those  of  his  oion  nature.  These  words  fur- 
nished Materials  for  a  Conversation  at  Table, 
on  Women,  which  was  conducted  however 
with  cautious  consideration. 

Lucas  had  ordered  two  Bottles  of  lachry- 
m<£  Christi  in  honor  of  Albert  These  he 
did  not  disdain  to  taste,  and  he  had  his  own 
wonderful  Thoughts  thereby.  For  these 
Tears  cleared  away  the  Clouds  from  his 
Eyes  I — they  placed  him  in  Spirit  in  times 
long  bypast.  He  thought  on  the  happy  days 
that  were  gone, — and  behold !  there  sat  his 


212  PEACE    IN    LIFE. 


Wife,  weeping  in  Numherg^  weeping  on  his 
account,  weeping  for  him !  Then  he  flew 
swift  as  an  Eagle,  back  to  his  own  Days,  to 
the  Present — and  there  he  was  in  Leyden, 
sitting  at  Table  opposite  Master  Peter  Gut- 
schaaf^  whose  rosy  daughter  sat  beside  him, 
always  hanging  tenderly  on  the  Eye  of  her 
Father.  He  saw  in  her  his  little  Daughter 
Agnes  now  grown  up,  and  he  sighed,  and 
the  Daughter,  the  good  little  Lamb,  looked  at 
him  and  sighed  also.  For  he  knew  well  how 
much  Peter  Gutschaaf  had  had  to  endure 
at  Home  from  his  Wife — and  yet  Gutschaaf 
was  so  very  cheerful! — that  was  his  Daugh- 
ter's doing.  She  was  like  the  Oil  between 
the  Door  and  the  Hinge,  the  mild  L  between 
harsh-sounding  consonants !  She  did  not 
intend  to  marry,  because  she  thought  it  her 
duty  first  of  all  to  show  her  Love  and  Grati- 
tude towards  her  Father,  before  she  loved 
any  one  else;  and  her  Father  assented  to  this. 
Albert  pictured  to  himself  his  Agnes  just  as 


PEACE    IN    LIFE. 


213 


tall  and  as  beautiful,  and  that  she  would  have 
been  as  kind,  and  that  her  Father  would  have 
been  as  fond  of  her.  Ah! — and  then  he 
called  Death  the  bitterest  Grief,  and  his  Tears 
ran  into  the  Glass  among  the  Tears  of  Christ 
— and  he  could  not  drink. 

Drink,  I  pray  thee,  dear  Master !  said  sly- 
Master  Dietrich,  the  Glass  Painter;  drink! 
The  Wine  which  the  Man  drinks,  restrains 
the  Wife;  and  the  Wine  which  the  Wife 
drinks,  dishonors  the  Man.  Just  listen  for  a 
moment  to  what  is  going  on  across  the 
street!  There  dwells  a  Straw  Widow,  so 
called  because  her  Husband  has  forsaken 
her:  and  who,  in  other  respects  of  a  Christ- 
ian and  harmless  disposition,  wilfully  draws 
upon  herself  many  suspicions,  in  order  to 
retaliate  on  him ;  and  he  is  just  now  cele- 
brating a  jovial  Banquet.  I  venture  to  say, 
that  when  he  comes  home  she  will  make 
herself  out  to  be  in  the  right ! 

Oh !  said  Bernard  of  Or  lei/,  the  Princess 


fi4 


PEACE    IN    LIFE. 


Margarets  Painter,  Women  may  be  in  the 
Wrong  so  prettily  and  sweetly,  that  one  is 
doubly  fond  of  them  in  spite  of  it — and  they 
may  be  in  the  Right  in  such  a  bitter  manner, 
that  one  curses  even  the  sacred  Truth  and 
them  at  the  same  time. 

Dear  Children,  interrupted  Master  Eras- 
mus Desiderius  of  Rotterdam^  one  of  the 
Guests,  who  was  on  his  journey  to  Basle,  I 
must  read  you  a  Lecture  after  a  fashion  of 
my  own,  and  show  you  how  foolish  you  are. 
Men  think  all  their  troubles  come  from 
Women,  because  it  is  through  them  without 
doubt  that  they  attack  them  I  We  must  re- 
member that  there  are  a  thousand  disagreea- 
bles in  Life ;  and  if  we  have  Wives,  then  of 
course  all  sorts  of  Cares  must  be  encountered 
in  Marriage;  and  every  one  must  receive  a 
tinge  from  it,  as  white  Wine  becomes  red  in 
a  red  cask.  We  are  apt  not  to  observe  this 
sufficiently.  A  Wife  cannot  do  us  any  harm, 
and  as  certainly  as  they  are  dear  Creatures — 


PEACE    IN    LIFE. 


215 


so  true  is  it  that  they  will  do  us  none.  Yet 
there  must  be  Cares! — And  then,  declaiming 
as  if  he  had  been  still  a  Lecturer*  in  Oxford, 
he  supported  his  position  by  the  following 
Verses : 

Care  dost  thou  despise  ?    It  is  the  secret 

Confidential  Link  'tween  us  and  Nature ; 

Confirmed  by  it  the  holy  Union  is. 

The  Husband  Care  endareth  for  his  Wife, 

She  in  her  turn  for  him :  th*  anxious  Mother 

For  her  Child— the  Child  for  her  again. 

Each  mortal  Man  hath  care.    The  Poor,  that  he 

His  frugal  Morsel  may  obtain :  the  Rich, 

To  keep  the  Wealth  he  has.    For  Nature 

Hath  the  Heavenly  Father  endless  Care ; 

For  Rich  and  Poor,  and  Nature's  Cares  besides. 

Care  is  Love  to  the  Earth !    He  who  without  it  lives. 

Ah !  knows  he  aught  of  Life !  knows  and  feels  he  thee, 

Thou  ever  sacred,  ever  bounteous  Nature  ? 


*  The  renowned  Erasmus  of  Rotterdam  spent  some  time 
both  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  in  which  latter  University 
he  gave  lectures  on  Greek  literature,  and  held  the  Margaret 
professorship  of  Divinity,  procured  for  him  by  Bishop  Fisher. 
He  was  the  friend  of  the  illustrious  More. — Translator. 


216  PEACE    IN    LIFE. 

Master  Dietrich  did  not  wish  to  make  any 
subtle  distinction  between  Care  and  Sorrow 
and  all  relating  thereto,  but  Master  Deside- 
rius,  whose  Symbol  was  "  nemini  cedo^^  (I 
yield  to  no  one),  refuted  him  by  saying: 
There  is  Care  in  loving,  Care  in  being  be- 
loved, in  living  and  in  acting ;  there  is  noth- 
ing but  Care  among  reasonable  beings ;  and 
because  God  has  intended  it  so  to  be,  I  sup- 
pose there  must  be  unreasonable  beings — I 
know  not  where  or  from  whence,  but  some- 
where in  the  World,  at  Brussels  or  at  Ley- 
den^  wherever  they  may  now  be  sitting! 
With  reasonable  people  nothing  leads  to 
Sorrow  and  Unhappiness ;  for  the  opposing 
Power  of  a  courageous  Mind  scarcely  allows 
Care  to  spring  from  the  knowledge  and  ex- 
perience of  the  World.  Look  now  at  our 
dear  cheerful  Peter  Gutschaaf !  He  does 
credit,  yea  even  honour  to  his  Name!*     He 

*  Gutschaaf— good  or  patient  sheep. — Translator. 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  217 

has  only  Care,  and  not  even  that ;  for  what 
he  has  at  any  time  to  experience  of  Life,  to 
which  the  Wife  belongs  above  all  things, 
comes  to  him  through  the  dear  voice  of  his 
Daughter,  and  penetrates  to  his  Heart  warm- 
ly and  refreshingly !  This  is  as  it  ought  to 
be,  and  so  may  it  always  continue,  dear  Peter 
Gutschaaf;  you  are  a  true  Man  I 

He  held  out  his  Hand  across  the  Table  to 
Master  Gutschaaf,  and  his  Daughter  also 
laid  her  little  Hand  therein,  which  seemed  to 
have  an  agreeable  effect  on  the  suffering, 
self-denying,  unmarried  old  Man,  for  he  held 
her  Hand  a  long  time,  and  seemed  lost  in 
Thought. 

But  he  could  not  resist  playing  the  Wag 
once  again. 

For  Master  Gutschaaf,  moved  by  the 
touching  scene,  poured  out  the  whole  of  his 
sad  Heart  in  these  Words:  Yes,  I  cannot 
help  saying  that  he  alone  can  be  happy  who 
has  a  Wife  and  Children !     Others  cannot 


218 


PEACE    IN    LIFE. 


SO  much   as  be  unhappy — not  at  least  in  a 
real,  human,  heart-rending  manner! 

I  certainly  know  nothing  about  such  un- 
happiness,  said  Master  Desiderins,  As  for 
me,  I  commend  all  Wives ! 

And  Bernard  of  Orley  whispered  audibly 
in  the  ear  of  Master  Dietrich : — because  his 
Mother  was  none ! 

To  this  Desiderius  rejoined:  My  Father 
never  married,  and  you  know  from  the  Scrip- 
tures that  in  Heaven  they  neither  marry  nor 
are  given  in  Marriage.  Now  I  put  it  to  you 
all,  my  dear  Sirs  and  Masters,  who  ought  to 
know  best,  whether  it  is  not  just  on  this  ac- 
count that  it  is  called  Heaven  ? 

You  know  how  to  make  for  yourself  a 
Heaven  upon  Earth  I  said  Dietrich. 

And  you  in  like  manner  a  Hell!  rejoined 
Desiderius. 

Master  Gutschaaf  laughed  till  the  Tears 
ran  down  his  old  pale  cheeks. 

Dost  thou  not  think,  my  little  &asan^  said 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  219 

he,  that  it  would  have  been  a  very  bad  affair 
for  thee  if  I  had  not  married  ? 

Very  bad !  said  she  assenting,  and  smiled 
abstractedly. 

And  still  worse  for  me !  said  Gutschaaf. 

Still  worse !  said  the  dear  Child. 

But  now  all  is  well !  said  he. 

Oh !  so  well !  replied  she  softly. 

And  the  old  Man  wept  for  Joy. 

Long  Life  to  you,  Master  Gutschaaf! — to 
you,  and  all  your  Relations,  near  and  dis- 
tant! 

The  whole  Family  of  Gutschaaf  long  may 
they  live !  exclaimed  Desiderius. 

Long  may  they  live!  exclaimed  all. 

Albert  had  poured  out  a  Glass  of  lachrymcB 
Christi  for  every  one  to  drink  this  Toast. 
But  his  Neighbour  Master  Desiderius  strange- 
ly but  smilingly  refused  these  Tears,  saying 
at  the  same  time:  I  have  no  Wife,  good 
Master  Albert.  Rhine-wine  is  to  me — ^the 
only  Wine ! 


220  PEACE    IN    LIFE. 


The  edge  was  taken  from  the  severe 
Words  of  DesideriuSj  so  that  they  cut  not  the 
Heart  of  Albert,  by  the  conduct  of  the  good 
little  Lamb,  who  drank  to  her  Father's  health 
along  with  the  others — and  whispered  across 
the  table  to  Albert:  I  drink  to  my  Mother 
also !  He  then  with  Tears  in  his  Eyes  drank 
to  the  health  of  the  Mother  of  his  Daughter. 

The  company  then  broke  up,  and  the  good 
Masters  departed,  according  as  each  was 
pressed  by  domestic  disquietude,  at  nine,  ten, 
or  eleven  o'clock.  Peter  G-utschaafremmned 
the  longest  Such  an  Honour  had  never  be- 
fore been  conferred  on  him,  who  was  a  mere 
Dluminist.  His  little  Daughter  wrapped  him 
in  his  fur  Great-coat,  observed  a  Wine-stain 
on  his  Lace-collar,  patted  him  on  the  cheek, 
kissed  him  and  said  very  softly :  Do  not  al- 
low the  Stain  to  spoil  your  Pleasure !  To- 
morrow morning,  before  my  Mother  is  up,  it 
will  be  all  washed  out  and  plaited  up  again. 
Thereupon   she   lighted   the   Lantern,   took 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  221 

leave,  pressed  Alberts  Hand,  who  with  irre- 
sistible Sadness  drew  the  dear  Child  towards 
him,  took  her  in  his  arms,  pressed  her  to  his 
Heart,  and  kissed  her  on  the  Forehead.  Her 
Father  thanked  him  for  the  great  Honour. 

Albert  went  sorrowfully  to  his  Chamber. 
He  threw  himself  on  his  Bed  without  un- 
dressing; the  Lamp  burned  dimly,  while  he 
lay  looking  before  him,  his  Fancy  floating  in 
half-waking  Dreams.  A  Gust  of  the  damp 
dewy  Wind  then  struck  upon  the  Window ; 
he  felt  much  oppressed ;  and  although  he 
had  not  seen  the  door  open,  yet  there  stood 
his  Wife  before  him  in  the  middle  of  the 
Room! 

Agnes  !  art  thou  here  ?  exclaimed  he,  filled 
with  astonishment.  He  gazed  at  her.  She 
was  so  young,  so  fresh ;  only  pale,  quite  dif- 
ferent from  Mortals !  The  boundaries  of  hu- 
man Existence  disappeared  before  him — he 
thought  the  form  was  that  of  his  Daughter, 
whom  the  Earth  so  long  before  had  snatched 


222  PEACE    IN    LIFE. 


away  from  him,  now  so  perfect  and  so  glo- 
riously grown  up  in  the  Gardens  of  Para- 
dise !  And  why  should  it  not  be  so  ?  But 
how  was  she  then  here  ?  Yet  she  was  there ! 
That  was  the  most  blessed  moment  of  his 
Life !  his  Heart  overflowed  with  Rapture ! 
He  listened,  expecting  she  would  speak  to 
him — would  supplicate  him  to  return  to  her 
Mother!  For  it  w^as  for  this  she  appeared 
to  be  come ! — But  ah !  it  was  not  his  Daugh- 
ter, for  she  would  have  smiled  on  him ;  and 
this  Agnes  would  angrily  at  him !  gloomily 
and  reproachfully !  And  yet  big  Tears  stood 
in  her  Eyes.  She  seemed  to  wish  to  ap- 
proach him,  she  spread  out  her  arms  longing- 
ly towards  him,  but  when  he  hastened  to 
meet  her,  she  pushed  him  away  from  her  and 
fled.  He  wished  to  detain  her,  and  caught 
her  long  flowing  Hair  in  his  hand ;  he  held 
her  fast ;  she  bent  back  her  Head  yieldingly, 
as  if  to  save  herself  from  Pain.  It  then  oc- 
curred to  him  that  he  might  be  dreaming ;  at 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  323 

the  same  time  she  uttered  a  loud  Cry ;  he  let 
go  his  hold,  and  his  Wife  had  disappeared ; 
the  room  was  in  darkness ;  there  was  scarce- 
ly Starlight  to  be  seen  without,  and  the  damp 
Wind  swept  past  the  Windows. 

He  now  perceived  how  deeply  his  Wife 
lived  in  his  Soul.  It  did  him  good  to  con- 
clude from  this  Vision  that  his  Agnes  per- 
haps felt  an  inward  longing  for  him!  He 
hesitated  now  daily  between  staying  and  go- 
ing. He  waited  however  the  answer  to  a 
Letter  he  had  written  to  Pirkheimer,  in  which 
he  had  recounted  the  above  occurrence. 

The  Answer  arrived.  Pirkheimer  wrote 
that  Agnes  expected  him  of  herself  on  St, 
John's  Day  ;*  only  she  was  very  angry  that 
he  had  held  her  so  fast,  and  showed  him 
some  loose  Hair,  which  she  had  probably 
torn  out  herself  that  Night  in  her  anguish.f 

*  The  24th  of  June,  the  day  of  the  Nativity  of  St.  John 

the  Baptist.    It  is  also  called  Midsummer  Day. — Translator. 

t  I  do  not  recollect  whether  I  had  not  previously  re- 


224 


PEACE    IN    LIFE. 


Moreover  Clara  had  returned  Home,  the 
Convent  having  been  shut  up;  Agnes  had 
renewed  her  youthful  Friendship  with  her, 
and  seemed  relieved  by  speaking  to  her  of 
Albert  As  a  Motto  to  the  Letter,  were  these 
words  of  St.  Chrysostom :  "  It  is  easier  to 
rule  a  Nation  than  a  Soul." 

Having  now  come  to  the  resolution  of 
returning  Home  and  living  out  the  Life  ap- 
pointed him  by  God,  Albert  was  a  new  Man. 
He  also  thought,  especially  now,  that  he  bad 
committed  no  Injustice  by  his  Separation. 
The  little  word  "  and  "  was  his  Comfort : — 
He  w^ho  separates  from  his  "Wife,  and  mar- 
ries another,  he  alone  does  wrong.  There  is 
no  one  who  leaves  House,  or  Parents,  or 
Brothers,  or  Wife,  or  Children,  for  the  King- 
counted  to  her  something  of  what  Albert  had  written  about 
the  way  in  which  he  had  held  her  in  his  Dream.  I  was 
very  angry  when  I  reproached  her  with  her  conduct,  and 
had  in  consequence  an  attack  of  my  old  enemy  the  Gout. — 
TF.P. 


PEACE    IN    LIFE. 


225 


dom  of  Heaven's  sake,  who  does  not  receive 
four-fold  again  in  this  Life,  and  in  the  World 
to  come  Life  everlasting.  But  the  Kingdom 
of  God  and  his  Righteousness,  said  he  in 
parting  from  her,  is  jf^eace  and  joy.  And 
Peace  he  wished  to  leave  with  her,  without 
thinking  of  Joy  for  himself.  But  that  was 
now  impossible.  He  scarcely  stopped  to 
refresh  himself  on  the  long  Journey  home  to 
Agnes^  for  he  could  not  overcome  his  Heart's 
Sickness,  like  one  who  forgets,  plays,  or 
sleeps  away  his  childish  Illnesses. 

It  was,  then,  on  the  Evening  of  ^t.  JohvUs 
Day  that  Albert  arrived  at  the  fruitful  Fields 
near  Nurnberg,  The  setting  Sun  shone 
upon  the  Citadel  and  Towers  of  the  City  so 
warmly,  so  familiarly!  Ah  I  there  is  only 
one  beautiful  Sun  for  every  one,  and  it  is 
that  which  rises  and  sets  on  his  native  City ! 
In  other  Lands  it  is  only  a  cold  Mock-Sun, 
a  wandering  Star,  the  delusive  Vision  of  the 
Home-Sun,  which  follows  us  like  a  Ghost. 

15 


226  PEACE    IN    LIFE. 

Albert  intended  to  wait  for  the  Twilight. 
His  Thoughts  swarmed  forth,  like  Bees  out 
of  a  Hive,  when  borne  home  from  a  strange 
Pasturage;  they  hovered  around  Flowers, 
blooming  Linden-Trees,  and  golden  Clouds, 
and  his  Soul  began  to  muse,  as  in  the  first 
bright  season  of  Youth.  He  ascended  a 
Hill  close  by,  from  which  he  had  a  View  of 
the  Road.  The  Lindens  towered  aloft ;  the 
well-known  Stone-bench  was  concealed  by 
the  waving  Corn,  in  which  the  note  of  the 
Quail  was  heard.  He  now  advanced.  His 
Heart  beat ;  he  saw  two  Females  sitting ; 
one  leaning  to  the  right  and  the  other  to  the 
left.  He  approached  softly — they  slept! — 
The  one  in  the  golden  Hood  and  the  Blue 
Dress  was — his  Agnes  !  The  other,  in  the 
simple  white  Dress  and  Veil,  on  which  shone 
the  rosy  lustre  of  the  setting  Sun — was 
Clara  I 

Both  had  come  out  to  meet  him.  Agnes 
wished  perhaps,  by  the  presence  of  the  other, 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  227 

to  moderate  Albert's  Tears,  or  her  own 
Words,  and  to  show  him  at  the  same  time 
that  she  was  reconciled,  that  she  was  tolerant, 
that  she  would  endure  and  love,  what  he  did 
not  hate ! 

He  stood,  and  gazed  upon  them  both  in 
silence.     What  a  Sight !     What  Thoughts  ! 

They  did  not  awake,  nor  did  he  wish  to 
wake  them.  He  sat  down  at  last  between 
them,  looked  and  mused,  and,  wearied  as  he 
was,  he  also  fell  into  a  Slumber. 

When  he  awoke,  he  perceived  that  his 
Head  was  resting  gently  on  Clara's  Shoulder 
— for  the  golden  Hood  to  the  left  was  gone. 
Agnes  had  waked  first ;  she  had  seen  him 
then  in  that  position,  in  which  he  had  found 
himself,  resting — on  her  Friend,  not  on  her 
— she  had  thought — Ah  !  she  was  gone ! 
The  saffron  haze  of  Evening  was  now  broad 
and  faint  on  the  Horizon — therefore  she  must 
have  been  long  gone — Poor  Soul!  said  he 
aloud ! 


228  PEACE    IN    LIFE. 

Clara  awoke.  Poor  Soul?  asked  she, 
rising ;  was  it  not  Albert^ s  voice  that  spoke 
thus?  He  took  her  Hand.  She  migsed 
Agnes,  then  held  her  Hand  before  her  Eyes, 
and  again  leaning  back,  said  for  the  second 
time  with  a  low  voice :  Poor  Soul !  And 
yet  this  also  is  a  holy  Evening  ;  for  here  is 
an  Angel !  thought  he,  looking  up  thank- 
fully towards  Heaven.  Albert^s  House  was 
closed.  They  now  went  silently  wandering 
side  by  side  towards  the  City.  Clara  did 
not  raise  her  Eyes.  He  accompanied  her 
home  to  Pirkheimer'' s  House  ;  the  door  was 
opened,  and  she  entered  in  silence.  For  the 
poor  Soul  could  not  say  Good-night  to  him 
noio;  the  words  died  upon  her  lips.  But 
the  old  sad  Smile  was  again  seen  upon  his 
Countenance. 

He  then  returned  to  his  own  House,  and 
looked  for  a  time  at  some  Children,  who 
were  catching  Glow-worms.  The  door  then 
opened.     Susanna,  who  did  not  observe  him 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  229 

sitting  on  the  seat,  went  past  to  draw  water. 
He  then  stole  away  to  his  own  room,  and 
went  quietly  to  bed  with  an  Evening  Hymn 
on  his  lips. 

Art  thou  still  asleep  ?  said  Agnes  to  him 
in  the  Morning  on  entering.  She  sat  down 
near  him  on  the  bed,  and  held  his  hand,  In- 
difference in  her  Features,  but  he  felt  that  in 
reality  her  agitation  was  extreme.  Breakfast 
is  ready,  she  then  said  to  him,  with  a  faint 
smile.  She  contemplated  her  pale,  emaciated 
Husband — then  was  heard  the  sound  of  the 
Death-worm  picking  in  the  wood  of  the 
bed ;  she  became  deadly  pale,  put  her  hand 
on  her  Heart,  and  scarcely  breathed — the 
Worm  went  on  picking.  She  then  gravely 
arose,  and  went  from  him  with  an  averted 
Countenance. 

He  now  sat  by  her,  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. Everything  was  as  of  old,  Mind  and 
and  Heart,  Joy  and  Sorrow.  Only  she  had 
become  more  silent,  as  if  speaking  had  for- 


230  PEACE    IN    LIFE. 

merly  annoyed  him.  It  certainly  was  a  dis- 
tinguishing feature  in  her  Character,  that  she 
said  everything  that  others,  more  considerate, 
think,  but  do  not  express  :  for  Woman  is 
Woman. 

But  he  saw,  notwithstanding — ^that  she 
wished  to  improve,  and  that  was  a  satisfac- 
tion to  him.  She  had  taken  Susannahs 
Daughter,  who  was  now  grown  up,  into  the 
House,  and  they  all  again  ate  at  the  same 
Table.  She  now  begged  his  Friends  to 
come  often,  very  often,  to  see  him  !  In  doing 
so,  she  cast  her  Eyes  on  the  ground,  and 
kept  turning  round  the  Golden  Wedding 
Ring.  She  exchanged  with  him  the  bed 
that  had  the  Messenger  of  Death  in  it,  and 
now  slept  therein  herself.  All  this  was  much  ! 
But  Habit  was  more !  She  still  took  every- 
thing her  Husband  said  to  her  as  a  Com- 
mand, and  though  within  her  rebellious 
Heart  there  was  a  powerful  struggle,  still  for 
all  that  it  was  quietly  done  after  the  lapse  of 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  231 

some  days.  It  is  true  that  Agnes  had  rated 
herself  very  highly ;  but  who  can  blame  a 
fallible  being  for  this?  For  he  is  to  be 
despised  who,  as  a  human  Creature,  does 
not  consider  himself  as  worthy  of  Estima- 
tion as  any  one  in  the  World.  Her  beauty 
had  heightened  still  more  this  estimate  of 
herself — and  yet  Agnes  had  not  rated  her 
own  value  highly  enough !  and  the  injured 
Dignity  of  Love  had  never  allowed  her 
clearly  to  perceive  how  much  Happiness  she 
might  have  imparted.  She  passed  her  Life 
under  a  continual  sense  of  Injury,  while  the 
recognition  of  her  Husband's  Worth  and 
Love  might  perhaps  have  extorted  from  her 
— first  Obedience,  and  then  Reverence, 

But  her  Thoughts  were  penetrated  by  one 
who  had  penetrated  and  turned  those  of 
many  others  besides,  and  animated  them  to 
newness  of  Life  by  the  clearness  and  vigour 
of  his  Intellect.  This  was  Melancthon,  He 
came  to  Nurnberg  in  the  following  May,  to 


232  PEACE    IN    LIFE. 

preside  at  the  opening  of  the  Gymnasium  of 
St.  Egidius.  The  Silver  Marriage  of  Ag- 
nes^s  Sister  took  place  also  about  the  same 
time.*  They  all  assembled  at  Church  to 
receive  the  Blessing  for  the  Golden  Mar- 
riage. Melancthon  stood  before  the  Altar, 
Agnes  and  Albert  next  to  the  Pair.  Pirk" 
heimer  had  perhaps  thought  that  the  Wives, 
listening  in  Silence,  would  receive  a  word 
of  Warning  from  another,  from  a  Stranger 
who  spoke  without  design ;  that  a  Hint  is 
often  sufficient  to  change  their  whole  man- 
ner of  Life,  leading  them  thereby  to  look 
within,  and  in  the  Word  spoken  to  see  them- 
selves, clear  as  in  a  Glass.  And  all  this 
without  any  exposure   to   the  World.     He 

*  Allusion  is  here  made  to  a  custom  which  prevails 
in  Germany,  of  having  a  grand  celebration  when  a  couple 
have  been  married  twenty-five  years,  and  this  is  called 
"  The  Silver  Marriage."  Another  takes  place  when  they 
have  been  fifty  years  married,  and  it  is  called  "  The  Golden 
Marriage ." — Translator. 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  233 

might  therefore  perhaps,  as  the  Friend  of 
both  Husbands,  have  given  a  hint  to  the  Ora- 
tor who  had  consented  to  preside,  to  scatter 
Seed  which,  besides  growing  up  now,  would 
certainly  bring  forth  good  Fruits  in  this  City 
for  Centuries.  For  MelancthoUy  without 
looking  at  Agnes,  said  to  the  assembly  of 
Men  and  Wives  and  young  Women,  among 
other  things,  the  following: — There  is  cer- 
tainly nothing  more  unnatural  than  a  disobe- 
dient Wife.  Slaves  cannot  obey,  for  they 
are  not  free ;  neither  do  Children  understand 
how  to  obey,  for  Obedience  is  the  Key-stone 
of  all  Cultivation  and  Freedom,  and  the 
Fruit  of  Love  and  Reason  at  the  same  time. 
Where  Obedience  is  awanting.  Freedom 
fails  also,  from  being  an  oppression  to  itself; 
Love  too  fails,  or  Reason,  if  not  both.  But 
every  one  must  be  subject  to  the  Law  which 
is  given  him.  The  Husband  and  Wife  may 
certainly  hold  converse  together  as  to  equal 
Virtue  and  Honour,  regarding  their  rank  as 


234 


PEACE    IN    LIFE. 


Citizens  and  human  Beings,  and  of  equal 
Protection  of  their  particular  Rights, — but 
not  of  equal  rights  !  because  the  Duties  and 
Obligations  of  the  Husband,  his  position 
with  regard  to  the  World  and  his  native 
Land,  are  incomparably  higher.  Only  those 
who  are  equal  in  reality  have  equal  Rights 
before  God  and  Man.  Even  equal  Science 
and  Art  and  Cultivation  do  not  give  a  right 
to  Disobedience  on  the  part  of  the  Wife ; 
much  less  Beauty,  a  white  Skin,  or  bright 
Gold.  For  the  Man  and  the  House — and 
the  Wife  herself — cannot  subsist,  if  she  does 
not,  from  Love  and  sacred  Respect  to  the 
ancient  and  divine  Duty  of  her  Sex,  cheer- 
fully make  the  Will  of  her  Husband  her 
own.  And  let  us  consider !  As  the  Man,  in 
his  earlier  Years,  was  often  subject  to  many 
restraints,  so  was  the  Wife  in  like  manner, 
before  she  entered  his  House.  She  must 
learn  what  is  taught  her ;  she  cannot  choose 
for  herself  her  Station,  her  Fortune,  her  Oc- 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  235 

cupations,  nor  even  her  Husband — for  the 
delicacy  of  the  feminine  nature  will  in  no 
age  admit  of  this.  She  enters  a  Town  with 
him,  she  enters  the  House  in  which  he 
dwells,  she  undertakes  to  superintend  the 
circle  of  domestic  affairs,  into  which  he  has 
led  her,  and  in  which  she  must  lead.  She 
becomes  thereby  truly  his  Wife.  She  must 
take  little  Strangers  to  her  Heart,  foster  them, 
and  also  love  them — without  having  been 
able  to  choose  them.  And  nothing  of  all  this 
seems  strange  to  her,  for  it  is  done  in  Obe- 
dience to  sacred  Nature,  and  thus  blest  by 
God.  It  seems  quite  unnatural  to  her  to 
consider  when  and  where  she  should  be  obe- 
dient to  her  Husband.  He  only  silently  de- 
sires it  from  the  same  Law  of  Nature ;  and 
if  this  universal  Mother  has  as  it  were  com- 
manded Obedience  on  the  part  of  the  Wife 
by  her  Love  towards  her  Husband,  she  has 
also  lightened  it,  yea  made  it  sweet  and  ani- 
mating ;  for  the  loving  Wife  scarcely  knows 


236 


PEACE    IN    LIFE, 


that  she  obeys ;  she  does  all  for  her  Husband, 
before  he  even  asks.  It  is  only  the  cold,  in- 
sipid, capricious,  ungrateful,  who  feel  the 
Fetters,  because  they  are  without  Affection. 
A  continually  increasing  Disobedience  is  but 
the  decrease  of  the  power  of  Love,  and  the 
decline  of  Amiability,  and  firmness  of  Char- 
acter— and  this  also  on  the  part  of  the  Hus- 
band. A  Woman  then  loses  her  respect  for 
a  Man,  because  she  sees  in  him  no  unselfish 
Protector ;  for  it  is  not  the  outward  forvi  of 
a  Man  which  calls  for  Love  and  Respect — 
but  the  Nobility  of  the  Soul,  which  alone  can 
live,  and  inspire  Confidence,  as  being  in  its 
nature  lasting.  He,  however,  who  loves  his 
Wife,  allows  her  to  rule  and  reign  in  her  own 
department,  because  she  is  a  Woman  and 
his  Wife,  and  when  prudent  and  wise,  un- 
derstands all  these  things  better  than  he. 
What  concerns  himself,  however,  as  the  act- 
ing and  reasoning  Spirit  of  the  House,  that 
he  has  a  Right  to  claim,  if  it  be  not  done  from 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  237 

free  Will ;  that  is  to  say,  from  Reason.  For 
he  is  Lord  of  the  House,  and  the  Father  of 
the  Children,  the  support  of  his  Wife,  her 
stay  in  Life,  yea  even  after  his  Death  ;  as  the 
Sun  that  has  just  gone  down  sheds  its  influ- 
ence on  the  Rainbow,  which  with  its  lovely 
and  varied  Colours  hovers  yet  a  while  in 
Clouds  over  the  teeming  Earth ;  till  becom- 
ing ever  dimmer  and  fainter,  it  at  last  by  de- 
grees expires  from  beneath,  but  still  beautiful 
and  discernible  even  to  the  last  faint  trace  of 
its  Arch !  But  by  Disobedience  his  little 
Kingdom  is  dissolved ;  yea  Cities  and  States 
secretly  decline,  where  the  Man  is  not  the 
Head  of  the  House.  For  from  Disobedience 
arises  Opposition, and  from  Opposition  Strife; 
and  where  Strife  is,  there  Law  and  Happi- 
ness go  to  wreck.  But  where  the  Wife  is 
properly  trained  and  accustomed  to  Obe- 
dience, then  the  Man  rules  mildly,  only  ask- 
ing and  counselling,  being  satisfied  with  the 
Knowledge  of  his  Power.     By  ruling,  how- 


238  PEACE    IN    LIFE. 


ever,  he  himself  learns  to  be  subject,  and  sub- 
mits to  it  willingly ;  for  he  who  does  not  find 
Obedience,  where  he  should  command  it, 
relaxes  again  in  his  turn  his  obligations  to- 
wards mankind  in  general.  Therefore  here- 
in also  is  the  Wife  the  Guardian-spirit  of  her 
Husband,  when  the  love  with  which  her 
Heart  is  imbued  impels  her  to  Subjection, 
because  indeed  it  would  be  a  shame  for  her 
to  command,  to  rule  I  And  even  Obedience 
is  scarcely  so  useful,  as  Disobedience  is  inju- 
rious, by  the  Self-will  and  Confidence  in  her 
own  Wisdom  which  it  displays.  Obedience 
argues  no  want  of  Wisdom  or  title  to  Respect. 
No :  this  primitive  Bond,  which  is  the  Glory 
and  Security  of  Woman,  can  in  no  Age  be 
dissolved,  founded  as  it  is  on  the  Softness 
of  her  Nature,  and  calculated  to  produce  the 
purest  Happiness.  Foolish  Fear!  through 
Obedience  to  sink  down  to  the  condition  of 
a  Servant!  It  was  by  Obedience  that  Mary 
became  the  Blessed  among  Women.     May 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  239 

Happiness  and  Prosperity,  then,  be  the  lot  of 
the  obedient!  of  her  who  places  implicit 
trust  in  the  Will  of  another,  whom  she  loves, 
whom  she  thereby  makes  happy,  who  meets 
her  half-way,  who  knows  not  how  to  thank 
her  sufficiently  for  all  the  Love  and  Kindness 
she  is  always  so  liberally  bestowing  on  him ! 
How  insensible  must  be  the  Heart  of  that 
Woman  who  is  not  satisfied  with  such  a 
Reward ! 

Albert^s  Silver  Marriage,  which  had  taken 
place  seven  Years  before,  had  not  been  cele- 
brated; no  one  came  to  wish  him  joy  of  it! 
The  Day  was  spent  in  sorrowful  Thoughts. 
He  now  observed,  that  when  Melancthon 
pronounced  anew  the  Benediction  on  the 
Couple,  Agnes,  who  during  the  address  had 
been  dissolved  in  Tears,  secretly  clung  to  the 
dress  of  her  Sister,  that  she  might  receive  the 
Blessing  along  with  her.  As  on  the  Day  of 
her  Marriage,  one  of  her  Cheeks  was  pale, 
the   other  in   a  glow.      That  she  however 


240  PEACE    IN    LIFE, 


should  consider  the  Blessing  of  this  Man  effi- 
cacious, was  to  Albert  a  Sign  that  she  had 
returned  to  the  old  simple  Faith,  perhaps  for 
his  sake,  knowing  that  he  was  attached  to  it. 
That  moved  him  to  his  Heart's  Core,  and  he 
also  touched  the  Clothing  of  the  old  Bride- 
groom ! 

Returned  Home  again,  Agnes  wept,  and 
that  openly ! 

AlherVs  Strength  was  gone,  he  felt  that  it 
was  so.  And  alas !  the  Fear  of  his  Death 
now  scared  away  Agnes  from  him  again ! 
When  he  began  gently  to  speak  of  it,  and  to 
tell  her  which  of  his  Pictures  he  considered 
the  best ;  for  which — after  he  was  gone — she 
should  expect  the  highest  Price ;  how  she 
might  be  able  to  arrange  this  or  that  in  the 
best  manner  possible  for  herself  alone — then 
she  was  dumb  and  motionless  as  a  Marble 
Statue,  and  he  spent  many  sorrowful  Days, 
till  the  Gloom  that  overspread  her  Existence 
passed  away,  and  thereby  Peace  was  restored 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  241 

to  him  again.  Formerly  he  had  to  endure 
Grief  on  account  of  her  Temper  and  Con- 
duct, till  he  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  at 
last  sunk  under  it  by  degrees:  now  she  saw 
him  borne  down  through  her,  and  had  to 
bear  Ai5  sorrow  on  her  account,  and  her  own 
fresh  Sorrow  for  him !  This  only  doubled 
his  Pain,  and  could  not  now  be  redeemed. 
She  silently  did  everything  to  please  him,  to 
comfort  him,  to  cheer  him  for  the  Moments 
yet  to  come— -but  to  recompense  him  for 
what  ?  for  many  long  Years  of  Sorrow  ! 
She  now  wished  suddenly  to  make  up  to  him 
for  all,  to  impart  Joy  to  him — but  for  what? 
for  his  Death.  He  was  now  therefore  obliged 
to  avoid  being  cheerful,  and  the  poor  Soul, 
alas!  ceased  in  consequence  in  the  end, 
either  to  try  to  enliven  him,  or  to  be  cheerful 
herself — or  even  to  appear  so.  And  thus 
they  both  sunk  into  Silence  and  patient  En- 
durance. They  only  smiled  upon  each  other. 
This  was  certainly  the  extreme  of  Wretched- 

16 


242  PEACE    IN    LIFE. 

ness,  which  no  one  on  Earth  seemed  to  be 
able  to  relieve  or  Temove — and  yet  it  was  at 
length  removed,  and  his  long  oppressed 
Heart  found — Peace  in  Life. 

For,  softened  by  the  quiet  kindliness  of 
feeling  which  had  lately  possessed  her,  Aggies 
now  disclosed  her  real  Feelings,  but  only 
gradually,  at  intervals  of  Days,  and  in  broken 
Sentences. 

She  had  been  playing  one  day  in  the  gar- 
den with  her  little  Brother  Johannes; — he 
had  put  a  small  polished  stone  into  his  mouth ; 
finding  afterwards  a  Bird's  Nest,  and  holding 
in  his  breath  for  joy,  he  had  choked  on  the 
Stone ;  his  Face  became  red,  he  sunk  down, 
and  kicking  with  his  Feel,  stared  at  her  with 
glazed  Eyes ;  she  hid  herself,  from  childish 
fear ;  their  Father,  on  coming  home,  had  in- 
quired for  Agnes  before  inquiring  for  Johan- 
nes ; — he  went  to  search  for  her,  and  found 
him !  When  they  were  carrying  away  poor 
little  Johannes  to  bury  him,  Agnes,  looking 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  243 

longingly  after  him  from  a  window  in  the 
upper  floor,  had  fallen  over  and  struck  her 
Head  on  the  Pavement,  and  she  let  Albert 
feel  the  hollow,  which  was  even  perceptible 
to  the  Eye,  from  a  slight  depression  of  the 
Hair.  Now  it  had  been  the  fond  Wish  and 
Dream  of  the  poor  Girl,  to  build  an  Altar  to 
the  little  Johannes^  whose  Life  perhaps  might 
have  been  saved — had  it  not  been  for  her 
Flight — at  which  a  Priest  paid  by  herself 
should  say  Mass  every  Morning  for  him  and 
for  her.* 

She  now  also  began-  gently  to  complain 
that  she  did  not  hear  well  when  the  Wind 
blew  from  Furth.-f 

*  It  appears  then  that  Agnes's  Frugality  arose  from  Re- 
pentance, from  Piety !  And  she  concealed  it  too,  because  it 
was  a  Catholic  Piety,  not  wishing  to  confess  it  to  Albert,  who 
was  Evangelical,  that  she  might  at  least  appear  Reasonable 
to  him,  and  not  vex  him  by  old  Absurdities  \—W.  P. 

t  Fiirth  is  a  village  near  Numberg,  and  this  complaint  of 
not  hearing  well  when  the  wind  blew  from  it,  must  be  some 
local  superstition. — Translator. 


244  PEACE    IN    LIFE. 

It  then  came  to  light  by  degrees  that  the 
Wind  had  certainly,  during  many  fine  Sea- 
sons, very  often  blown  from  Furth.* 

The  conversation  once  turned  upon 
Dreams,  and  it  was  remarked  that  any  one 
could  find  out  the  most  secret  Thoughts  of 
the  Heart  of  another  when  he  speaks  in  his 
Sleep,  by  seizing  and  holding  him  by  the 
great  toe  of  the  left  Foot ; — then  he  reveals 
all.  Agnes  had  once — during  the  Honey- 
moon, when  she  heard  Albert  speaking  in  his 
Sleep,  seized  and  held  him  by  the  great  toe 
of  the  left  Foot,  had  listened  and  heard  him 
say :  "  The  Serpent  with  the  human  Counte- 
nance pleases  me  not! — Potiphar's  Wife  is 
nothing  more  than  beautiful !  a  great  fault ! 
An  alluring  Sin  allures  to  Sin — Flight  would 
here  again  be  the  most  desirable !" 

These  Words  she  foolishly  applied  to  her- 
self,! when  they  were  probably  only  a  suc- 

♦  This  Excuse  may  be  admitted. —  W.  P. 

t  Thus  the  Superstitions  of  others  may  be  destractire 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  245 

cession  of  Images  which  he  beheld  in  his 
Dreams.  Vain  as  she  was  of  her  Beauty, 
she  had  preferred  allowing  a  thousand  men- 
tal Faults  to  be  attributed  to  her,  rather 
than  one  bodily.  Her  Frugality,  as  it  was 
now  explained — the  spurring  on  to  work — 
the  brightening  up  of  the  Gold, — what  else 
were  they  but  the  Penance  of  a  pious  Nature, 
seeking  Atonement  for  a  supposed  Crime  ? 

The  Cheerfulness  Albert  had  maintained 
during  the  whole  of  his  past  Life  was  gone, 
was  now  entirely  lost — but  his  Life — ^by  no 
means  so !     His  mental  Faculties,  his  Fan- 


to  us.  It  will  never  be  well  here,  that  is,  on  this  side 
of  the  Mountains,  till  Superstition  is  also  banished  from 
the  other  side,  that  is,  from  among  the  Ultramontanes. 
There  will  be  no  peace  till  then  ;  for  the  Foolish  are 
continually  breaking  and  destroying  Peace.  To  be  wise 
alone  is  of  no  avail.  Therefore  he  who  has  Reason  on 
his  side  must  not  be  silent;  he  must  not  remain  inac- 
tive. It  is  from  Heaven  he  has  received  his  right  to  work  I 
—W.P. 


246  PEACE    IN    LIFE. 


cies,  his  Desires,  had  richly  indemnified  him, 
and  he  was  enabled  to  impart  to  others  the 
feelings  of  Pleasure  which  had  been  denied 
to  himself — Ah  !  and  also  the  Powers  which 
he  still  possessed,  without  having  known  or 
dreamt  of  them.  He  now  became  conscious 
of  a  new  Faculty  in  Man, — that  of  being 
able  to  remodel  the  Past,  according  to  his 
present  Powers  and  Perceptions  ! — a  Faculty 
which  almost  of  itself  would  demonstrate 
that  Man  is  of  Divine  Origin.  With  the 
Torch  of  his  present  Knowledge  he  went  far 
back  into  the  Hall  of  other  Days.  Images 
in  an  innumerable  succession  of  Chambers 
were  there  to  be  seen.  And  as  he  began  to 
wander  with  his  Torch,  the  old  Forms  which 
were  resting  there  rose  up  once  again,  and 
they  looked  at  him  differently,  and  he  looked 
at  them  differently ;  they  whispered  to  him 
and  he  whispered  to  them,  what  he  now 
knew  that  he  knew  not  formerly ;  their 
Countenances  were  peaceful,  and  his  Soul 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  247 

came  to  an  Understanding  with  theirs ;  and 
from  the  Cultivated  of  every  Age  he  parted 
reconciled  and  with  a  Smile ;  and  he  roused 
those  of  the  following  Age,  and  conciliated 
them  also.  But  he  himself  was  also  to  be 
seen  there  !  a  poor,  melancholy,  embarrassed 
Man,  who  sat  and  painted  in  all  the  Cham- 
bers, and  looked  pitifully  at  him  !  To  this ! 
Self,  during  all  these  long  days  so  desolate 
and  lonely,  he  also  reconciled  himself;  and 
his  Forms  all  smiled  now,  arose,  and  wished 
to  follow  him  through  all  the  Chambers  of 
the  Hall  of  other  Days,  even  up  into  the  last 
Chamber — even  out  into  the  great  Hall  of 
the  Sun — to  Agnes.,  where  she  now  lived 
and  breathed,  a  changed,  improved,  and  es- 
timable being,  and  where  he  alone  was  per- 
mitted to  wander — he,  the  living,  the  blest ! 
But  they  only  looked  after  him  and  said: 
We  now  willingly  remain  here  in  the  Hall 
of  the  Past ;  thou  hast  revived  us,  and  poured 
fresh  Water  on  us,  like  faded  Flowers  I — 


248 


PEACE    IN    LIFE. 


Thou  hast  breathed  a  bright  Soul  into  thine 
own  dead    Works.      We   thank  thee   that 
thou  didst  come  down  and  dwell  with   us. 
Mayst  thou  be  happy,  till  thou  comest  thy- 
self, or  till  thou  dost  arrive  at  the  end  of  thine 
own  Course! 
/       He  thus  filled  up  again  the  spoiled  Wine 
;   of  his   Life   with  fresh  sweet  Must,  and  it 
fermented  and  cast  out  the  Dregs,  and  was 
'    palatable,  although  not  so  sweet  as  the  Must! 
To  see  his  Agnes  thus  excused,  was  a  Cor- 
dial to  his  Heart,  and  imparted  Power  to  his 
Mind  yet  once  more  to  flame  forth. 

But  with  already  broken  Heart,  he  could 
only  now  direct  her  attention  to  the  preserva- 
tion of  his  Works.  He  completed  those  that 
were  only  half  finished,  destroyed  such  as 
were  no  longer  practicable,  overlooked  every- 
thing, and  rejoiced  in  his  Life.  Even  the 
saddest  Year  has  sunny  Blinks,  and  Seed 
thrives  in  good  Ground  even  in  a  bad  Year; 
and  the  Year  is  twice  beautiful, — when  the 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  249 

Trees  blossom,  and  when  they  exhibit  red 
and  yellow  Fruits  ;  in  the  interval  everything 
is  uniformly  green  and  green!  There  lay 
now  on  the  large  Table  the  Fruits  of  his 
Labours ;  his  Work ;  Instruction ;  for  the  use 
of  all  Lovers  of  the  Arts ;  four  Books  on  the 
Proportions  of  the  human  Body ;  the  Great 
Passion;  the  Revelation  of  St.  John;  the 
Life  of  Mary;  104  Sheets  of  Engravings; 
367  Sheets  of  Woodcuts  ;  the  whole  of  the 
Pictures  in  his  own  list  were  to  the  number 
of  1254  Pieces.  The  Scholars  also  whom  he 
had  trained  arrived  to  see  him  ;  one  of  them, 
indeed,  was  the  Pope's  Painter  and  Architect 
at  Rome.  He  inspected  the  Medals  which 
were  struck  in  honor  of  him ;  fifty  different 
Likenesses  were  scarcely  sufficient  to  supply 
the  demands  which  came  from  all  quarters. 
He  was  most  struck  with  a  Medal  of  him,  on 
which  were  his  arms:  An  open  Gate  with 
two  Wings ;  on  the  Crest  a  grown  Man  with- 
out Arms,     Thus  the  Past  may  often  prove 


250  PEACE    IN    LIFE. 


an  indication  of  the  Future  !  The  open  Gate 
was  the  Gate  to  Heaven.  The  grown  Man 
without  Arms  was  he,  the  Dead — What  was 
there  in  his  Life  that  he  could  now  change  ? 
what  improve  ?  It  was  God  alone  who  could 
change  the  Peace  he  had  found  in  Life,  to 
Peace  in  Death.  So  farewell  my  Albert ! 
The  Italians  called  thee  Alberto  Duro  !  but 
that  thou  wert  not,  either  in  Art  or  in  Life. 
—Thus  Albert  peacefully  awaited  Death,  as 
he  had  peacefully  lived.  Almighty  God  be 
gracious  to  him, 

and  grant  him  a  happy  End! 
*  «  « 


There  sat  I,  poor  Wilibald,  leaning  on  my 
Hands  and  Weeping.  The  foreign  Artists 
who  had  wished  to  serenade  him,  began  to 
do  so  now,  and  in  the  Stillness  of  the  Night, 
the  soft  Tones  of  the  Flutes  and  Flageolets 
penetrated  from  the  street  till  they  reached 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  251 

my  Ear  and  that  of  the  dying  Man.  In  the 
room  under  me,  while  I  was  reading,  Agnes 
had  sung  all  sorts  of  Songs  in  her  Anguish, 
at  last  even  a  drinking  Song !  I  could  not 
smile  at  this.  Albert  had  had  the  enjoyment 
of  one  cheerful  Heart,  and  that  was  his  own. 
He  could  not  otherwise  have  known  what  a 
Treasure  God  has  implanted  in  the  Bosom 
of  Man.  His  Wife  had  diligently  digged 
for  it,  and  brought  the  bright  and  shining 
Treasure  to  the  Day.  And  hoio  much  he  had 
accomplished !  I  therefore  now  perceived 
that  nothing  can  repress  the  energy  of  a  true 
Artist,  and  that  nothing  is  a  Misfortune  to 
him.  He  might — perhaps — feel  better  and 
easier  in  one  way  than  another — but  whatever 
is  in  an  Artist's  Soul  is  drawn  forth  by  the 
World,  whether  it  be  in  Rain  or  in  Sunshine. 
And  what  he  succeeded  in  was  no  Trifle — 
for  that  was  his  Life.  If  he  experienced 
Suffering,  it  was  because  he  loved,  and  that 
was  better  than  being  happy  without  loving, 


252  PEACE    IN    LIFE. 

—if  indeed  any  one  can  be  happy  without 
loving  !  Love  always  makes  one's  own  Heart 
happy ;  let  every  one  rest  assured  of  this. 
And  he  who  is  a  genuine  Artist  is  full  of 
Love.  A  Woman  always  and  everywhere 
marries  the  Man  alone,  and  not  his  Trade ; 
therefore  let  every  one  boldly  marry  the 
Woman  he  loves,  and  let  no  Woman  fear  to 
marry  an  Artist,  for  she  may  be  as  happy 
with  him  as  with  another,  even  were  she  in 
all  respects  an  Agones.  A  Woman  without 
Fault  or  Failing  is  an  Angel,  and  will  always 
be  so  in  every  situation ;  yea,  and  what  is 
more — will  appear  so  I  But  had  Albert  de- 
scribed himself  as  an  unhappy  Man  in  his 
married  Life  ?  Certainly  not.  What  had  I 
perceived  or  discovered  on  reading  it,  but 
just  the  longing  after  pure  Happiness  ?  And 
the  description  of  his  Agnes  had  represented 
to  me  very  vividly  such  a  Wife  as  an  Artist 
stands  in  need  of,  and  better  than  I  could 
have  pictured  to  myself  in  the  form  of  a 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  253 

peacefully-happy  Wife.  And  tlins  my  Albert 
had  had  the  best  possible  experience  of  a 
Wife.  For  as  he  himself  as  a  Painter  once 
said  on  the  subject  of  Delineation,  so  it  is ) 
that  in  a  Picture,  Light  first  arises  from 
Shade — that  Light  indeed  becomes  only  pro- 
perly visible  by  means  of  Shade,  and  when 
we  perceive  that  the  bright  Sun  of  Heaven 
shines  through  them.  The  great  Lord  of  All 
could  not  have  imparted  to  him  a  more  vivid 
Conception  of  what  the  Wife  of  an  Artist 
ought  to  be,  than  by  giving  him  one,  by  giv- 
ing him  his  own, — one,  who  w^ould  have 
made  an  Artist  miserable^  had  he  not,  as 
every  one  can  and  may,  taken  refuge  in  his 
Art,  and  in  his  own  high  and  noble  Thoughts 
and  Feelings,  as  my  Albert  did.  Thus  was 
he  nevertheless  happy!  For  in  every  one 
who  is  unhappy,  there  lies  concealed  a  Ca- 
pacity for  Happiness,  yea  an  inexhaustible 
Felicity  of  Soul,  if  he  knows  how  to  call  it 


254  PEACE    IN    LIFE. 


forth ;  and  if  he  cannot  do  so,  then  he  de- 
serves to  suffer.  Also  Contrast  was  not 
awanting  to  Albert^  but  he  touched  on  it 
slightly  and  cautiously ;  for  there  soared 
Crescenzia,  and  there  hovered  Clara  also 
over  him  like  an  Angel,  who  wished  to 
come  down  to  him,  but  dared  not.  In  the 
Deprivation  of  Happiness,  lies  thousand-fold 
Happiness.  Albert  thus  learned  what  a  Wife 
might  be — and  oh !  that  they  themselves  un- 
derstood what  they  might  be  to  a  Husband ! 
— and  he  lived  it  all  in  Thoughts  and  Wish- 
es, and  revelled  in  the  longed-for  Enjoy- 
ment Oh!  the  sweet  Charm  of  Life!  the 
ever  Joy-inspiring  race  of  Women!  And 
thus  I  now  looked  upon  him  as  happy ! — 
happier  than  one  who  is  led  by  his  Wife  all 
his  Life,  foolishly  occupied  with  her  Dress, 
her  Vanities,  her  Pleasures,  and  her  worldly 
ways  of  thinking.  Agnes  led  him  into  the 
Depths  of  the  Heart,  led  him  daily  back  to 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  255 

the  Artist's  only  true  and  immovably-clear 
Source.  Even  a  hard  life  is  better  for  him 
than  an  easy  one. 

By  these  Thoughts,  thus  excited,  I  was 
prepared  to  see  our  dear  Mistress  Agnes 
enter,  whose  Sufferings  only  in  reality  began 
with  the  Death  of  Albert  She  now  appeared 
at  the  Door.  I  went  towards  her,  and  took 
her  Hand,  which  trembled.  She  followed 
me  like  a  Spectre.  She  looked  at  the  Mas- 
ter. She  looked  at  the  Child.  The  Flutes 
sounded  on,  so  sweetly !  so  softly !  Ah !  it 
is  at  the  hour  of  Death  that  Music  is  truly  for 
the  first  time — Music ;  in  Life  it  is  only  a 
sound,  awakening  Remembrance  of  the  Past, 
or  Foreboding  of  the  Future.  Now  it  was 
truly  the  Call  of  the  Angels  from  Heaven. 

A  Messenger  now  suddenly  and  roughly 
entered  the  silent  holy  Chamber.  He  be- 
sought me  to  come  Home.  Clara — my  poor, 
gentle    sister    Clara — was  just  dead ;    per- 


256  PEACE    IN    LIFE. 


haps  from  Anguish  and  Fear  that  Albert  was 
dying! — for  she  had  heard  Agnes  begging 
me  to  go  to  him.  The  shivering  of  the 
Glass,  which  Agnes  knocked  in,  had  drawn 
her  to  the  Window  over  my  Head.  As  I 
went  out,  she  whispered  down  to  me  tender- 
ly:  Do  not  be  angry  with  him,  my  Brother! 
God  be  with  you ! 

Alas !  these  then  had  been  her  last  "Words ! 
I  wept  bitterly.  Why  should  I  now  go 
Home  ?     The  Dead  wait  full  of  Patience. 

Albert  had  evidently  heard  the  announce- 
ment that  had  just  been  made  to  me.  He 
opened  his  Eyes.  Agnes  scarcely  ventured 
to  approach  him :  she  showed  as  much  for- 
bearance as  to  allow  him  to  die  in  Peace,  in- 
stead of  grieving  him  once  more  by  the  re- 
membrance of  all  his  Sufferings,  which  the 
sight  of  her  would  have  called  forth.  She 
knelt  at  his  Bed,  concealing  her  Head.  He, 
however,   lifted    his   Hand,  laid  it  on   her 


PEACE    IN    LIFE.  257 


Head,  and  said  with  a  faltering  Voice :  Fol- 
low thou  me !  thou  wert  good — I  have  enter- 
tained an  Angel. 

No !  I  have !  sobbed  Agnes,  and  I  knew  it 
not,  I  believed  it  not ! 

There  thou  wilt  see  into  my  Heart!  said 
he ;  how  I  always  told  thee ;  I  was  not  gen- 
tle, not  good  enough — for  I  suiFered,  for  I 
was  full  of  Love 

He  expired  with  the  word  "  Love  "  upon 
his  Lips.  The  Flutes  sounded  on,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  their  Tones  accompanied  his 
Soul  to  Heaven.  In  the  Churchyard  of  St* 
John  rests  all  that  was  mortal  of  him. 

Strew  Flowers  over  him,  oh  Wanderer! 


THE   END. 


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